


Legend of Durin I: Heart of the Mountain

by Scribe_of_Erebor



Series: The Legend of Durin [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Bofur - Freeform, Dis - Freeform, Family Drama, Gen, Gimli - Freeform, Gloin - Freeform, History of Middle Earth, Hurt/Comfort, Legolas - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-29
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 23:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 47
Words: 140,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/946067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scribe_of_Erebor/pseuds/Scribe_of_Erebor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the War of the Ring, many believe that the tales of great deeds and mysterious powers have all been told, but there are powers in Middle Earth older than Sauron, and the Ring was not the only thing to have a will of its own.  Upon the mountain above Minas Tirith, the night holds secrets that set in motion a new adventure for three thought long dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. King Under the Mountain

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a king dies and a legend is begun.

1\. King Under the Mountain

_Historical Note: What follows is a true transcription of the original text in Khuzdul, as told to Ori II, Scribe of Erebor by the participants. For ease of reading, all comments have been translated to Westron no matter the language spoken. However, spoken Westron is denoted with "" speaker marks, while Iglishmek (the Dwarven sign language) is denoted with '' speaker marks, and Khuzdul is in italics. Also, the proper plural of dwarf, 'dwarrow', has been replaced with the modern usage common in the Shire, Gondor and Rohan, 'dwarves'._  


_Ori II, son of Nori, Scribe of Erebor_

Thorin Oakenshield’s last memory was of dying.

The bitter taste in his mouth was not only that of blood, but of the deepest failure he could know. To have been on the edge of triumph at last, to walk once more the majestic halls of his grandfather’s kingdom, the corridors where long ago three royal dwarf children played… And now, his life ebbed from him with each labored breath, his sister-sons and heirs cold and still, waiting not to take their places beside him in Erebor’s halls, but in its royal tombs deep at the heart of the mountain. This is what his pride and greed had brought him to, brought them all to, leaving the heritage of his ancestors to the coward, Dain, his cousin who’d refused to aid, calling the quest folly. Folly it had been, but it was not facing a dragon that had been so impossible, but thinking himself immune to the sickness he had seen take his grandfather and father. The House of Thrór would never again rule under the mountain, nor would the prophecies come to pass.

The faces of those at his side began to fade as his heart gave up its struggle at last, breath exhaling to be drawn no more. Loyal, patient Balin, his steadfast companion for so many years, fierce Dwalin, crying at last in his failure to defend the heirs of Durin, Óin and Glóin, his other cousins, silently standing guard over the bodies of their younger kin, and Bilbo Baggins, their reluctant burglar who had so proved his worth…  
Darkness descended, but as if through a fog, a silent wraith watching over those he’d left behind, Thorin saw his body tended, dressed and groomed for burial as rightful king. Next, Fíli and Kíli were carefully prepared as well, faces forever young. Fíli, like Thorin himself, had taken many small wounds until bleeding out from an arrow to the shoulder. He had probably lived long enough to know he’d failed to protect his kin, a bitter cup for one so young. Kíli, however, had taken a sword thrust through his lung and heart, most likely dead before he ever knew he was in mortal danger. Those tending the body were forced to wind long cloths around the torso before dressing the youngest heir of Durin. 

A long, mournful line proceeded slowly to the depths of the mountain, and then the tomb, fit for the rightful king, though he’d sat his throne for so short a time. Thorin was placed in a tomb hued into the bedrock of the mountain itself, two lesser tombs on either side holding the young princes, their weapons with them. Fíli’s twin swords still glittered in the torchlight with dark orc blood, testament to the fierceness with which he’d defended his fallen kin to the last. Kili’s bow was snapped in two, mute testimony to how any orc had gotten close enough to the skilled archer with a blade. Suddenly, a soft exclamation in elvish broke the stillness, and the silver haired young prince of Mirkwood stepped forward to kneel by Kili’s side. A graceful bow of the elven kindred, white wood gleaming, and a quiver of arrows thatched in the blue of Durin’s heirs were placed gently on the dwarf’s chest, then the elf moved back respectfully. Thorin felt himself bristling, though without body to give voice to the heresy of laying an elven bow with his sister-son. One of the still living members of the Company, however, was not so handicapped, a growled insult in Khuzdul making the elf’s head snap up to glare at the offender.

“I give honor where it is due, Master Dwarf, whether you approve or not. His skill with a bow and unwillingness to see even forced allies fall saved my life during the battle. He is worthy of carrying such a weapon to the Halls of his Fathers.”

Fuming, Thorin then noted the young one’s father, the hated Thranduil, dare to step forward, Orcrist in his hand. The Elf King took the blade forged by Thorin himself, casting it to the side before replacing it with Orcrist, a glare daring any to make a sound of protest. None dared. The man, Bard, then laid the Arkenstone upon his body, cold hands moved to clasp the Heart of the Mountain. The spirit of Thorin reeled, for he could almost feel the heat of the stone in a hand that no longer existed for him. Nearby, Dain scowled, no doubt believing the Arkenstone to now be rightfully his, but made no move, unable to claim what had now been given to the dead. Softly, a dwarf priest began the final rights, the ancient Khuzdul echoing in the small space, as old and powerful as the core of the mountain. Suddenly, the words altered, leading a gasp to ripple through the dwarves in attendance. Power seemed to fill the chamber, deep and frightening, and blue lightning danced upon the stone walls.

“Be watchful, Durin’s Folk, for he shall soon stand forth, kin to one newly crowned, Durin the Deathless, the seventh and last. In the days when the Shadow flees shall the ancient kingdoms be reclaimed, the glory of old renewed.”

Words died into faint echoes carried by the stone, as if from beyond the land of the living, ere one of the company dared to speak. Predictably, it was the practical, stolid Dwalin.

“Ech…priests. Come. We must secure the legacy they died to defend.”

One by one, Thorin watched all leave, until at last only Bilbo Baggins remained, gaze switching sorrowfully from the young princes to the king he’d defied to save. Reaching out one hand, the steadfast hobbit laid it atop Thorin’s cold one on the Arkenstone.

“I wish you’d lived to know true peace, my friend, and to truly see your home once more. The darkness Gandalf feared growing in Dol Guldur has fled to Mordor, I fear none of us may know safety now, even my Shire. Good bye, King under the Mountain.”

Thorin faded into the darkness, content to be with his kin deep under the kingdom he’d reclaimed at last.

And so it came to be that Thorin Oakenshield and his sister-sons, Fíli and Kíli, were laid to rest. Then was Dain Ironfoot proclaimed both King of the Iron Hills and King under the Mountain. The Khazad wondered at the words of prophecy spoken at Dain’s coronation, foretelling the last return of Durin the Deathless as kin to Dain, and looked to his right, where Thorin Stronghelm, his young son and heir, stood, but that one did not have the look of Durin as six others had before. It was not he who was foretold, but he was watched, for he must take a mate for the Line of Durin to continue. 

Taking the fall of the Fortress of Dol Guldur to the White Council as a sign, Balin, Dwarf Lord of the ancient line of Durin, assembled a company to reclaim the ancient kingdom of Khazad-dûm, but they disappeared into the depths, to be heard from no more, and the power of Mordor stretched forth over the lands of Middle Earth, searching endlessly for the least of all things, a ring in the hands of a hobbit. At last, Dain took council from the mistakes of the past, sending forth a small delegation to the elves, though not to the hated Halls of Thranduil, but to the hidden valley of Elrond. There, they beheld this trifle, truth pulled from the Deceiver’s lies, hope where they believed none left, but that is another tale, for there are powers in Middle Earth more ancient than the evil of Sauron and Rings are not the only things with a will of their own.


	2. Past Becomes Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the use of hobbit feet is seen and a king is reborn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

2\. Past Becomes Present

Thorin felt pain explode within, liquid, drowning him as he tried to cry out with lungs that no longer drew breath. Falling. Noise roaring in his ears, chill air biting exposed skin, senses rushing to life once more in an explosion of color. Then came the jarring impact of hard ground, something round and cold flying from fingers that had to yet recall how to move, and a clatter of metal ringing against rock. 

On his side, lungs fighting to expel the stale intake of death, Thorin’s vision swam, taking in a small figure against bright light, bending to pick something from the ground. Then his vision was cut off by another hitting the ground, pain once more flaring as something hard impacted his thigh, hot blood gushing anew down his leg from an arrow wound. Someone cried out in shock, and flesh hit flesh, then all was lost in white light, brighter than the sun. 

Fighting to retain consciousness, Thorin felt mortal wounds knitting themselves together of their own accord, the bones in his injured shoulder straightening first, then the arrow wound in his stomach, finally, the cold metal head of a crossbow beginning to force up, out of his thigh, but stopping before it could be finally expelled from the body. Sight and sound returned, and with it, pain, but duller than before, and localized mostly to his thigh. Stars stretched across the darkness overhead, the flicker of firelight dancing nearby. Cautiously, the dwarf king drew breath, marveling at the pure cold in his throat, the tingle of skin, even the hot throb of blood on his thigh, sensations proving that somehow, he lived once again. 

The soft whisper of cloth and a moan nearby reminded the dwarf that he was not alone, hand fumbling instinctively for the hilt of a sword even as he cautiously turned his head to assess the situation. He seemed to be in a small mountain clearing, pines surrounding the space bending in the wind with a quiet rustle. Next to, and partially on top of him was another, solid body and muscular arms that of a dwarf, blond braids painted red in the firelight. Fíli! Before Thorin could reach out to his nephew, the other was staggering to his feet, focused intently on something before him, back to his uncle. As the young dwarf took one unsteady step forward, a small figure came barreling at him from the shadows, oversized foot planting on the dwarf’s unprotected side, sending him sprawling once more to the ground.

“Oi! You stay away from him!”

The figure resolved itself into a hobbit, of all things, short and solid in build, a small sword to hand, feet planted and daring anyone to come near. Just behind, Thorin could make out two bodies, limp, one sprawled atop the other near a small fire. Fíli surged back to his feet, one of his twin swords in his right hand, left arm limp at his side, answering anger with anger.

“That’s my brother over there!”

At those words, Thorin tried to rise, ignored by the combatants, only to be sent back to the ground with gritted teeth as his right leg refused to bare weight. Gaze darting around, he spotted Orcrist just behind him, grabbing the blade to unsheathe it with a ring of steel. Finally, the other two noted his presence, Fíli’s eyes widening in shocked realization. Even sitting in the dirt, there was no mistaking the deadly skill of Thorin Oakenshield as the elven blade swept through the night toward the little hobbit. The Halfling, surprisingly, blocked it, swords sparking off one another, but as it did, both Thorin and Fíli received a good look at the little blade. The younger dwarf blurted the words, anger mixing with surprise.

“That’s Bilbo’s sword!”

The hobbit took a quick step back, wary now, hands shifting in the tell-tale nature of a nervous, inexperienced wielder.

“Aye. It is. What of it? Who are you to know Mr. Bilbo?”

They were two against one, but the hobbit was too close to Kíli and the other to risk overwhelming him, especially as both Thorin and Fíli were wounded, nor could the king easily stand to join the younger dwarf in a rush. Besides, Thorin knew of old that some of the deadliest foes were those inexperienced with their weapons, for they did not do as expected, nor control the consequences of their swings. This small being of a peaceful race could kill without ever intending to, as the orc henchman of Azog’s had discovered among another stand of mountain pines when this sword rested in the hands of Bilbo Baggins. Far better to try talking with him for the moment.

“We are friends of Bilbo Baggins; he accompanied us on a journey to reclaim our home.”

Thorin watched as the hobbit took that in, noting the rough hands that held the sword and the rustic manner of this one’s speech, so different from Bilbo’s proper wording. A working hobbit, then, not one of the closest that small land held to gentry, but he spoke of the burglar with familiar respect.

“And how do I know as you’re tellin’ the truth? Dwarves fallin’ out of the sky and all. Tell me- tell me as how Mr. Bilbo got this sword, an’ what one of the company said it was instead of a proper sword.”

Thorin ground his teeth to keep from barking back at the Halfling, cursing the whole race’s fondness for riddles. 

“It was from a troll hoard along the Great East Road, near Rivendell. Three mountain trolls tried to eat us, but were caught by the dawn and turned to stone. Two other swords from ancient Gondolin were also found there.”

No need to recite the more humiliating aspects of that whole debacle, but what had anyone called that thing besides a sword? A glance at Fíli showed that he, too, was plumbing the depths of his memory, then the golden head shot up.

“Balin called it a letter opener at the dinner in Rivendell!”

At that, the hobbit straightened.

“Aye, that’s what he put in his book. Supposin’ we all put away our swords and sort out this mess. I’m Sam Gamgee.”

As soon as Sam noted Fíli relaxing in turn, he swiftly sheathed Sting, as Bilbo had named the weapon, and turned toward the two by the fire. In turn, Thorin and Fíli both sheathed their own blades, Thorin immediately waving his nephew towards his brother. Dare he hope that his youngest sister-son, too, drew breath once again? Moving carefully, the dwarf king scooted closer to where the other two were gently untangling the bodies, letting out a sigh of relief when both chests could be seen to rise and fall. The hobbit, Sam, glanced up, and then grabbed Fíli just before the dwarf could hit the ground himself.

“Here now, you’d better be sittin’ down afore you fall and that’s a fact. I’m right sorry about kickin’ ya, but I thought you meant to hurt Mr. Frodo. You’re hurtin’ from more than my foot, aren’t ya?”

Sam carefully maneuvered the dwarf prince two steps back until he stood next to Thorin, who reached up to take some of Fíli’s weight as the young one descended to the ground, then curled around his side. His face was white, forehead clammy to his uncle’s touch. The hobbit’s brown eyes met Thorin’s deep blue.

“If you can see to him for a moment, I’ll check on Mr. Frodo and his brother, though I didn’t see any blood or wounds so far. Be right back.”

Without waiting for Thorin’s nod, the hobbit was scurrying off, gently straightening the two on the ground and running gentle hands over them to check for wounds, even as the king did the same for his own charge. Fíli wasn’t bleeding, but lifting his shirt revealed massive black bruising enveloping the entire left side of his body and down his arm almost to the elbow. The ribs felt intact, though Fíli moaned and flinched from his probing fingers. How the young one had stood, let alone drawn a weapon with such injuries, Thorin had no idea. A small bag entered his line of vision, and he looked up to find Sam standing next to them.

“Healer’s kit. It isn’t much, but everything in there is good, Strider packed it himself. Neither Frodo nor your friend appears hurt, but both have fevers and they won’t wake up. “

Fíli stirred at that, forcing himself to uncurl and sit with his uncle’s helping hand, sweat on his forehead in the cool night air giving silent indication of the pain he still fought. Under his hand, Thorin could feel the muscles spasming, stirring the bruises, chest rising and falling in short, sharp breathes. Rooting through the kit revealed a small glass jar labeled on top in Westron ‘bruise ointment’, the smell when Thorin took off the lid a familiar one. Good enough. Fíli gasped, shooting him an annoyed look when he began slathering it on, but Thorin simply ignored him as he had every other time he’d been obliged to tend to the two.

“Kíli had a wound through… I mean I thought I saw…”

The older brother faltered, stiffening in confusion and emotional agony at what his memories told him. Thorin put down the ointment and reached up, physically turning the golden head toward him as the younger dwarf began to shake.

“Fíli!” He startled, blue eyes slowly focusing again. “Keep your mind on the present for now. I need you here. You both live, that is enough for now.”

One hesitant nod reassured the king that the other was with him as he tucked his great fur coat around the elder of his sister-sons.

“Are you hurt anywhere other than your side and shoulder?”

It took a long moment for the other to answer him.

“I think… I was, but I felt the wounds seem to…repair when there was that bright flash.” Fíli’s head ducked, face coloring ever so slightly. “I think I kicked someone when I landed.”

Someone? The boy knew damned well who he’d kicked or he wouldn’t be flushing like that!

Sam snorted, shaking his head at them as he muttered, “The way you all was fallin’, I doubt you could help it. Ain’t never seen anything like that afore and that’s sayin’ something, what with all me and Frodo have been through. Fíli, is it?”

“Yes. That’s my brother, Kíli, and this is-“

“Thorin.”

The king cut him off quickly, though it was possible this hobbit would recognize the names even shorn of titles. Sam, however, did not have a chance to react because a soft voice came from just behind him.

“Sam? What’s happened? I thought I saw dwarves falling out of the sky.”

The second stranger, another hobbit, was moving restlessly under the blanket Sam had draped over him, obviously struggling to sit up. Sam bolted to his side, hands grabbing shoulders to hold him down.

“You just lie still, now, Mr. Frodo. Do you hurt anywhere? That shoulder of yours?”

Not bothering to wait for an answer, Sam pulled a small pack over and gently lifted Frodo to lay propped against it, then was carefully baring the other hobbit’s left shoulder. Thorin, meanwhile, scooted himself and Fíli to the side of Kíli, who lay on the ground next to Frodo, also covered in a blanket. The younger prince was so pale that for a moment Thorin was certain he must be dead again, but breath brushed against the hand he held to Kili’s mouth. Fever spots high on his cheeks were the only spots of color to be seen and when his uncle laid a hand on his forehead, the young dwarf’s skin was cold and clammy. Shock. It was a deadly killer, able to strike down even those who seemed fully healthy, even the healers unable to agree upon the true cause or best treatment. Some fought through it, and others simply faded away. Carefully, Thorin bared Kili’s chest, still wrapped in linen stiff with old, dried blood. He worked one hand underneath and touched- Skin, whole with the feel of an old scar down it. One hand darted out to draw one of the small knives kept in Fíli’s vambraces, slicing through the wrapping cloth to confirm with his eyes what his fingers had told him. Head darting up, he and Fíli almost collided in their shock.

“It isn’t possible…”

“Was that where he was wounded?”

Sam’s soft question snapped both dwarves back to the present, hastily wrapping up a now visibly shivering Kíli.

“Yes, but it now appears months old.”

Thorin noted, eyebrow raised at the hobbit, who was nodding.

“Aye, Mr. Frodo’s shoulder looks the same, and Lord Elrond told us plain it wouldn’t ever heal. The skin around the scar isn’t even cold anymore, and the spot where old Shelob bit him on the back of the neck is gone, too. Could this big jewel as fell with you lot heal?”

“Big jewel…?” 

He glanced in surprise at what the hobbit held out to him. The Arkenstone! Hesitantly, he took it, but the gem was cool and hard in his hand, displaying no warmth or power.

“What jewel, Sam? The one that fell at my feet? Who are these dwarves?”

At Frodo’s question, Sam moved from between them, allowing Thorin his first good look at the other hobbit. Quickly, he stashed to Arkenstone inside of his tunic. Frodo was slight, almost emaciated for a hobbit, with delicate features and curly dark hair. The hands lying on the blanket showed none of the thickness of Sam’s, gnarled with work, though there were scars there, and the ring finger on the left was gone.

“They really did just fall out of the sky after that big clap of thunder, Mr. Frodo.” Sam began earnestly; as if afraid the other wouldn’t believe him. “The jewel came outta Mr. Thorin’s hand when he hit the ground and I saw you pick it up just as this one, Fíli, knocked ya down, then his brother, Kíli, fell on ya. There was this great flash o’ light like Mr. Gandalf made that time in Moria, and now- Well, your shoulder!”

Sam was practically shouting at the end, words tripping over each other in his haste, breath finally exploding back into him as he stopped. Had it been under almost any other circumstances, Thorin would’ve laughed. From what was obviously long familiarity with the other, Frodo simply let him wind down before speaking again, reassuring and without a hint of smile at the comic waving arms of his friend.

“I’m perfectly fine, Sam, just exhausted. I don’t think I could move very far right now even if I had to. I am cold, though. Is the tea water still heating over the fire, or did it spill in that ruckus?”

Diverted finally with a solid piece of normal behavior needing his attention, the brown haired hobbit moved off smoothly, leaving Frodo to watch curiously as Thorin went back to tending Fíli. Taking the strips that had previously bound the younger brother’s chest, the older dwarf found a piece that was relatively free of blood stains, first cradling Fíli’s left arm in a sling, then binding another strip over that to hold the arm snug to his chest, stabilizing the shoulder. His own leg still throbbed, but no longer seemed to be bleeding, so he ignored it for now in favor of his nephews.

“Bilbo is my uncle.”

The soft words brought him to make eye contact with the young hobbit lying nearby, a gleam of curiosity and knowledge in his eye.

“Is that why your friend bears his sword?”

Frodo nodded slowly, accepting a cup from Sam and sipping slowly. The other hobbit soon brought over two more cups, steam curling gently from the top of them in the cool night air, handing them to Thorin and Fíli. It was a soothing tea common in the Shire, and while Thorin had never cared all that much for it, he sipped, appreciating the warmth.

“Bilbo actually gave it to me, but I don’t care for carrying a sword anymore, so Sam uses it. I’ve seen Glamdring, of course, since Gandalf still carries it, but I’d never expected to see Orcrist. However, it lies by your side, so I can only conclude that you are either both a liar and grave robber-“

Fíli growled angrily, only Thorin’s firm grip on his good shoulder keeping the young hot head seated. Frodo didn’t seem at all alarmed, though Sam’s hand strayed to Sting’s hilt. Frodo simply smiled slightly, continuing.

“An unlikely conclusion given how you arrived or you truly are Thorin Oakenshield, somehow returned from the dead after over seventy years.”


	3. The Goblin Cleaver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which more old friends appear, and trouble is greeted with sharp blades.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

3\. The Goblin Cleaver

“Over seventy years…?”

Thorin breathed, disbelief warring with panic. Beside him, Fíli was beginning to quake once more, head shaking frantically. The dwarf king simply put a hand on the back of his golden head, drawing the young one forward to his chest,

arms gently moving up and down his back in a soothing caress he’d not used since Fíli was a dwarfling. The blows, however, did not yet seem to be done raining down upon the Line of Durin. A lithe figure darted into the firelight, bow held with arrow cocked as the being surveyed the scene before him, eyes widening ever so slightly as he took in the three dwarves before returning his attention to the woods around them. An elf, and the young Prince of Mirkwood, no less. Thorin was about to make a rather rude comment when the elf spoke.

“Keep weapons to hand, something is in the woods.”

Thorin’s and Sam’s eyes met, then both reached for their swords, blue flaring and lighting up the clearing as they were drawn. Fíli instantly rose, swaying slightly, but defiant, giving a hand to his uncle, who grunted as he felt fresh blood run down his leg. Thorin’s grip tightened on the young dwarf’s shoulder, leaning closer to speak in his ear.

“Should we need to fight, you are to stay with the hobbits and Kíli, protect them, is that clear?”

Few indeed would argue with Thorin Oakenshield when he used that tone of voice. Amazingly, it had even been known to make Bilbo Baggins shut up and do as he was told. Fíli looked distinctly unhappy about it, but nodded compliance with the order. The sounds of metal clashing rang from further down the mountain, a scream echoing high and loud, then silence. The core of both Orcrist and Sting went dim, though the tell-tale gleam still danced at the edges of the blades. They were no longer in immediate danger, though the loud battle would most probably bring it to them afresh shortly. Brush cracked as someone heedless of the noise of passage approached their clearing. A dwarf came running in and stopped next to the elf, ax at the ready, already dripping black orc blood, to which his lithe companion wrinkled his nose.

“I assume that you are the reason that we no longer see Sting glow warningly. Could you not have stopped for a moment to clean your blade, Master Dwarf?”

There was a light, almost teasing note in the question, not the usual derision Thorin was used to hearing. The dwarf, red hair and beard reflecting the nearby flames, simply grunted, cocking an eye at his taller companion.

“As I don’t have a pretty blade to tell me if there are more nearby, no, Master Elf, I did not.”

“And you did not think to share your bounty, either.”

“There were but three, Legolas, and the argument was quickly cut short by my ax, sorry. We need to bring Frodo and Sam back to the city before others join us.”

Sam had advanced to join the odd pair during this short discussion, shaking his head firmly.

“Mr. Frodo can’t walk an’ neither can Mr. Kíli. Don’t know as how far the other two would get, either. We’ll need more help than just us to get them down the mountain. I can go get someone if you two watch’em.”

The dwarf turned at Sam’s vague wave in their direction, mouth gaping in shock as he took in the sight of the three dwarves- nay, cousins- in the clearing, for the king no longer had any doubt as to who this must be. Beside him, he felt Fíli stiffen.

“Glóin?”

Thorin corrected him before his friend’s son could find his voice.

“No, Gimli.” The other certainly looked enough like his father to make that mistake. He even carried Glóin’s axes. Thorin directed his next comment to Sam Gamgee, hoping to forestall an ill-advised move by the other. “If there are more orcs on the mountain, it would not be safe for one to go alone, Master Gamgee.”

“Especially not you or Frodo, Sam,” Gimli finally found the voice to add, “The guards at the base of the mountain were returning to find aid when Legolas and I left. What are the injuries? If we can move to the rock alcove just down the trail, it would serve us as better protection.”

Thorin answered the role of leadership an old and comfortable one after so many years.

“My leg is untrustworthy, Fíli’s left arm and shoulder are badly bruised, but both of us can fight if we must. Frodo and Kíli appear to be unwounded, though exhausted, in shock and fevered, both must be carried. Kíli we have not been able to wake. I can draw Kili’s bow, though I cannot match his skill. If we are to move, it had best be done now while the orcs have not yet found us.”

“Agreed, Thorin Oakenshield.” The elf, Legolas, quickly bent, retrieving the familiar short elven bow and handing it to the dwarf king with a nod. “Sam may aid you to walk, it is not far. Gimli, take Frodo, I will handle Master Kíli.”

Thorin may not have liked elves, but he was also no fool. This one owed a life debt to his youngest sister-son; symbolized by the bow Thorin now held, an obligation even a son of Thranduil would have difficulty ignoring. Sam quickly stamped out the fire, and then was at his side, a sturdy presence between himself and Fíli for them to lean upon at need.

Fortunately, the path was smooth, easy to follow even in the darkness and the area they aimed for only about 500 feet down the trail. As it was, both Thorin and Fíli found themselves sinking to the ground at the end, backs propped against the solid protection of the rocky wall. Fíli did not draw his brother into his lap, knowing he might have to stand with little warning, but Thorin noted the elder brother’s hand sought a spot on Kili’s chest above his heart as soon as the younger dwarf had been set down next to him.

All waited in anxious silence, eyes fixed alternately on the forest around them and the steadily growing blue glow of Sting and Orcrist. When both were fully lit, Thorin sheathed Orcrist and notched an arrow to the bow string, hoping to knock out a few foes before they could close with the small group, though he knew his aim would suffer for the trees. A flicker of a shape was all that was seen before the bow of Legolas sang, arrow contacting flesh somewhere beyond the sight of all but elves. Then came the howl of a warg, and there were targets aplenty. Thorin had the satisfaction of seeing two fall to his arrows before being forced to abandon the bow in favor of the sword. Gimli and Legolas had moved out slightly, both busy with hand weapons.

“Hah-ha! Six! I’m ahead again! Best get busy, my pointy eared friend!”

Gimli’s gleeful shout momentarily startled Thorin as he watched the other dwarf send an orc’s head flying into a nearby fir tree with the force of his blow, his comments odd, but there was no time for questioning as a warg jumped that melee to meet Orcrist’s clean swipe. Another smooth swing and the orc who had been riding it lost its life as well. Pain forgotten, Thorin moved to stalk his next target, as sure and deadly as a thunderstorm lowering over the mountains, striking with the swift bolt of lightning that was Orcrist. An arrow whistled past his head, flipping a few strands of his hair, the heavy body of an orc falling into his back momentarily sending him staggering. Damn elf had good aim, at least.

Momentarily without a foe, Thorin risked a glance back toward the rock alcove just in time to see another of the foul creatures felled by the combined blows of Fíli and Sam. The young dwarf was on his feet, but obviously shaky, allowing the hobbit to aid him in yanking his sword free of the orc’s skull, the last of those who’d slipped past the three advance defenders. Satisfied, Thorin turned back to Legolas and Gimli only to see an orc duck a slash by the elf and shoulder his way past the dwarf, headed straight for the two hobbits without sparing a glance for the dwarf king. It was the last mistake the dark being would make. One well-placed swing ensured that Orcrist lived up to its name of the Goblin Cleaver, torso almost completely severed. Gimli and Legolas combined felled another warg and rider, and suddenly silence descended onto the forest once more, blue no longer lighting up the area.


	4. The Heart of the Mountain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the mystery of dwarves falling out of the sky is explored further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

4\. The Heart of the Mountain

A torch flared to light in Gimli’s hand and he held it up, nodding in satisfaction at the litter of corpses on the forest floor. Thorin merely raised an amused eyebrow at this familiar action by the next generation from the one he was used to seeing do it. Glóin had always loved the fight, in many ways even more so then had Dwalin. Legolas was picking his way among the fallen, ensuring that none lived. Thorin snorted with amusement at the distrust of the craftsmanship of his kin this showed, though he somehow doubted it had occurred to the elf. Pain flared through his leg, and he found it necessary to accept Gimli’s wordless aid to walk even the half dozen steps it took to return to the sheltered alcove.

Fíli was already seated, slumped against the wall, lines around his eyes betraying the agony he was fighting, though his one good hand was planted back on his brother’s chest instead of clenched around his own as most would with such injuries. Frodo was watching Gimli, Legolas, and Sam move the dead away from where they were seated with distaste, face white. Sam soon had another small stack of wood ready for a fire, and sat down as Gimli lit it with the torch, Sting unsheathed by his side. At least this hobbit had that much sense.

“How are you feeling, Master Baggins?”

Gimli eyed the young hobbit with concern, earning a small smile in return even as Fíli and Thorin both started at the name, though logical for Bilbo’s nephew.

“I’m just very tired, Gimli. Sam looked, and even the wound from the morgul blade on my shoulder is gone. For the first time in so very long, I feel…whole.”

“A wound from a cursed blade cannot fully heal!” Legolas appeared from the night, the soft objection preceding him. “I believe it is time the full tale of this night is told!”

Sam and Frodo immediately told of the unprecedented arrival of the dwarves, the tangled confrontation, and the discovery of the healing of Frodo and Kíli. Frodo hesitated with a look at Thorin, then gave voice to the same conclusion the dwarf king himself had.

“I think it may have something to do with the gem that fell with them, which I presume was the Arkenstone. At least, it looked like the drawing in Bilbo’s book. It was in my hand and sandwiched between Kíli and I when that light hit, and we’re the two fully healed.”

“Fíli and I both felt wounds knitting that had previously proven mortal, though they were not completely healed,” Thorin added. “It does seem to have been the Arkenstone.”

Thorin paused, lost in thought, as a scrap of memory from long ago teased at him. It was in Erebor, before Smaug, his grandfather and father were both in his grandfather’s study, an old dwarf woman with them.

Curious, and a little frightened of the old woman, who had a reputation as a seer, Thorin had hidden behind the heavy drapes with his younger siblings, Frérin and Dis. Peeking out, he could see the old one bent over a gem lying in his grandfather’s hand, the discovery of which had set Erebor abuzz earlier in the day. Long silence stretched as the younger two tried not to fidget and give them away, Thorin’s gaze promising swift retribution on the one who did. When the seer finally spoke, all three dwarflings started, then stilled, barely able to make out the scratchy, paper thin words.

“Be wary, King Under the Mountain, for by disturbing this one’s slumber, you have bound to it the fate of your House. Should it be lost, so too shall your people suffer until returned by the hand of one found worthy through the blood of the drake. Then shall your blood endure under the mountain until the end of days.”

Thorin blinked, drawing his mind back to the present to find all staring at him in mixed awe and apprehension. Gimli swallowed hard, venturing the first question.

“I’d not heard that prophecy before, my King. From whence did it come?”

Surprisingly, the mode of Gimli’s address instantly brought his temper boiling up, two innocent words scraping the scab off a newly formed wound.

“I am king of nothing! My name was good enough in your youth, it will serve now.”

The other dwarf shrank back from Thorin ever so slightly while his cousin visibly flinched, opening hurting eyes to watch his uncle warily. As quickly as it came, the anger drained, leaving Thorin rueful.

“I am afraid my wounds and the situation have made my temper short, Gimli, I apologize. The prophecy was given to my grandfather and father on the day the Arkenstone was first discovered, though they never paid it much heed until the fire-drake came. I had forgotten it until now.” He shook his head. “It is meaningless, as the line of my grandfather ended with Fíli, Kíli, and I, and Dain, I presume, still sits upon the throne.”

He was very careful not to say ‘my throne’.

“Well, that’s not quite-“

Breaking branches and the sound of multiple bodies coming through the woods cut off whatever the younger dwarf had meant to say. Once more, Thorin forced himself to rise to his feet, wary, though neither Orcrist nor Sting gleamed a warning. A low growl gave them a bare moment to sweep weapons up to the ready before a single warg stalked toward them through the trees, seemingly unalarmed by the torch Gimli quickly brandished. The bow of Legolas twanged, but the arrow was snapped from the air with incredible speed by the beast, breaking into pieces in its jaws. Two more arrows were fired, but incredibly, neither found their intended mark. One fell victim to the same fate as the first arrow fired, while the other hit only a leg, serving to further enrage their foe. Gimli, Thorin, and Sam braced, ax and sword held ready, as Legolas abandoned his bow once more in favor of a long knife, and none too pleased with the turn of events. The creature was already too close to draw away, pinning them against the rock wall where the others lay, presenting the danger of further injury to those unable to dodge the coming struggle. They were trapped.


	5. City of Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin learns the many uses of Gandalf's staff, and meets a king of men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

5\. City of Stone

Even as they steeled themselves for the coming trial, Fíli covering his brother with his own body, a light flashed brightly, momentarily stunning all, including the warg. Before the creature could recover, a figure, familiar, yet subtly altered, swept from the forest, sword in one hand while the other held aloft the staff that was the source of the brilliance. Gandalf, for it could be no other with such an entrance, swept staff and sword around, cleaving into the neck of the beast before one touch of white wood set the warg ablaze. In another dazzling flash, only ash littered the forest floor where the fell beast once stood, taking all unprepared, including the wizard. Just behind him, another man walked, tall and regal, with sword in one hand and torch in another. He paused, looking bemused at the bits of warg dust now clinging to his boots and leggings, before cocking an eyebrow at Gandalf in query. The wizard, in turn, looked disgusted.

“That was not my intention. It seems this one was enhanced by sorcery, most likely by Saruman given that it yet lived but unraveled upon my touch.”

As he spoke, Thorin sheathed his blade, considering his old friend carefully, for he had clearly changed. Where all once saw an old man with a long grey beard wrapped in tattered grey with a gnarled tree limb to aid his steps, there now stood tall a being of power clothed in pure white, white hair and beard neatly groomed, the white staff at his side clearly a sign of his stature and not a prop for faltering feet. Something had at last occurred that required the Istari to reveal himself openly, not a comfortable thought for any who wished for peace. Now, more so even than before, this one earned the name given him by the dwarves long ago- Tharkûn, the staff-wielder.

“Faramir!”

The man hailed, a younger man with light brown hair and a short beard coming instantly to his side, waiting instructions.

“Pass the command that none are to be unaccompanied outside the city walls until the mountain is scoured. Evacuate those who live nearby inside and organize a contingent to see it done, but tell them to go warily, we deal with the remnants of Saruman’s treachery. Gandalf-“

“Hold your arms until the morning, Aragorn, when I will be free to accompany them. For now, we must get everyone off this mountain.”

If the other was taken aback by the wizard’s assumption of command, he made no sign of it, simply bowing his head briefly in acceptance. A few short orders were issued back through the ranks of men now surrounding them, and three stretchers appeared, Fíli, Kíli, and Frodo gently bundled onto them, blankets wrapped snugly against the chill night air. It was a sign of how much the older prince hurt that he did not object to this aid from strangers.

“Will your injuries allow you to walk, or do you require a litter as well?”

The soft question was asked by the tall grey-eyed warrior, now standing next to him, eyeing him assessing as if trying to catalog injuries unseen. He dared not admit weakness before this man, yet Thorin could feel his adrenaline draining from him at last, taking strength with it. Thankfully, his leg was not showing obvious signs of the reopened wound.

“I will make it.”

A snort was the only warning the dwarf king received before a white staff swept his legs from under him, landing him back not into dirt, but onto another stretcher padded with blankets. Before he could think to move, the tip of the offending piece of wood settled on his chest, barring him from rising. Looking up, the angry dwarf met the amused eyes of the wizard.

“Do not be a bigger fool then you must, Thorin Oakenshield! That thigh wound is already re-opened and further exertion without proper treatment could easily permanently cripple you. Put away your pride for this night, at least.”

He hated it when the damn wizard was right!

“And if I consent, where would you take me?”

To maintain the illusion of some control over his fate was all that the dwarf king had to grasp for the moment, a vital hold preventing his temper and perhaps his sanity from slipping completely in the face of the impossible. The man, seeming to sense the conflict in the eyes of Thorin, dipped his head regally in a greeting of equals.

“You are upon the mountain into which the great city of Gondor, Minas Tirith, is built. I am Aragorn Elessar, King Returned of Gondor and Arnor, and I would bid you welcome as an unexpected, but honored guest.”

This one had a wicked sense of humor, lightly emphasizing the word ‘unexpected’, eyes flashing with amusement, but he showed a courtesy not many among men would offer a dwarf. Thorin hesitated, but one glance toward Fíli and Kíli made clear what his decision must be. A glare at Gandalf warned the wizard not to assume that he had heard the last of this latest affront.

“Very well.”

The trip down the mountain and then around to the gates of the White City did not lend itself to speech, even should Thorin have wished it. As it was, he was content to watch those around him, stoically ignoring the alarming sway of the stretcher on some of the steeper areas. Ahead, he could hear Sam chiding the men who bore Frodo for every tilt and stumble. Gimli and Legolas walked beside Fíli, who looked to be uncertain of the honor, though reassured by the presence of his cousin, at least. 

Gandalf and Aragorn were walking to either side of Thorin himself, silent guardians for the dwarf king. Thorin found himself studying Aragorn intently, trying to solve the riddle of this grim stranger claiming a throne that had been vacant for so many long years. The visage teased at his memory, especially in the light of the flickering torches, but he could not quite grasp it. Those few of Gondor he’d previously encountered were little more than the remnants of a once mighty people, struggling to survive even as were the dwarves of Erebor, and certainly not above taking any advantage to themselves at the expense of other races. Then, as the stretcher shifted steeply to the side, forcing the dwarf to hastily grasp the sides and Aragorn to lend a hand lest it spill the passenger, he saw it. On Aragorn’s little finger was a ring of serpents set with a small stone. So, one of the true lineage yet remained, the puzzle grew more intriguing, yet also alarming, for if a true heir of Isildur had at last reclaimed the throne of Gondor, then the balance of power within Middle Earth was shifting. Whether that shift may prove well or ill for his people would need to be determined quickly, even if Thorin himself no longer occupied a position of leadership, for men had long sought to claim unearned the wealth of mighty Erebor.

Finally, they entered a white stone wall, gates off to the side in a wrecked heap of metal and wood. Signs of war surrounded them, yet also indications that the people of the city were beginning to repair what they could. The stone of the homes they passed were built with a skill Thorin rarely saw from the race of men, but also showed their age. Those that were newer showed haste and sloppiness that would be unacceptable among dwarves, even to the exiles of the Blue Mountains. Still, the potential was hidden within for greatness, should skilled hands of the Khazad be given the freedom to uncover it. Quickly, Thorin cast that thought away, for what men had ever lessened themselves in the eyes of their kin by taking direction from those of another race save the Rangers of the North? Even those of Dale had long kept themselves apart from the very beings whose work allowed the city to prosper on their doorstep.

“Where are you taking us?”

Thorin finally asked as they wound up through the stone streets empty of almost all this late in the night. The king of men glanced down with a reassuring smile.

“To the Citadel at the peak of the city, Lord Thorin. Due to the unusual nature of events, and who you are, I thought it better to house you where greater discretion may be exercised rather than the Houses of Healing, which are open to regular citizens of the city. I would also rather you were where I can easily attend to you myself.”

“You are a healer?”

The dwarf did not bother to hide the wariness of his tone, for though the Rangers he had known had some skill in the healing arts, it had been mostly that required to save a life until more skilled help could be sought. Gandalf laughed softly at the question.

“Aragorn has not only a full measure of the healing gifts of his ancestors, he was taught his craft by the greatest healer of Middle Earth, Elrond himself. I am a bit surprised, truthfully, that a ten year old boy would not have sought out such unusual guests in his foster-father’s home as thirteen dwarves, one hobbit, and a wizard one mid-summer’s eve.”

Aragorn smiled at that, but did not answer the wizard’s subtle query, contenting himself with checking upon his other three patients, while Thorin noted the implications of that remark. The man checking Kíli did not look to be eighty-seven, but the blood of kings would lengthen his lifespan considerably. The rest of the walk was passed in silence. Once inside the great Citadel that stood at the peak of the city, they were taken to a large room with three beds, two on one side and another across from them, and a warm fire already roaring in the fireplace. Thorin was gently set on top of the bed by itself, nearest the door, a folding screen of thin wood shielding him from the others, and a young man came in to aid him in removing his clothes. As he did so, another young man, identical to the first, brought in a low metal bathtub, filling it with warm water, towels and soap sitting nearby. 

“Please wait here, sir, Lord Aragorn wishes to examine your leg before you bathe.”

One of the two told him politely, handing him a blanket to wrap in before disappearing with Thorin’s clothing. Well, that was one way to ensure a reluctant patient did not spurn the offered hospitality! A movement by the screen and Gandalf slipped around it, bringing a chair with him.

“Well, I must say that this is one meeting I could not have predicted. Sam has told me much of what occurred in that clearing, and Aragorn is tending to Fíli and Kíli, so I thought perhaps I might offer answers to the questions I am sure you must have.”

Thorin looked askance at that, definitely not used to the wizard offering anything so straight forward before, but it was a long moment before he resolved where to begin.

“The Necromancer in Dol Guldur, was it as you feared? The Enemy truly returned?”

Gandalf’s face seemed to age, remembered cares re-carving the weight of responsibility as he recalled that dark time.

“Yes, I am afraid so. Not only had Sauron returned, but he had brought the Nine, the Nazgul, to life as foretold. We were able to drive him from the fortress, but only, I now believe, because he wished it so. Mordor was reoccupied, the fires raged in Mount Doom, and his dark minions began to search once more for the One Ring.”

Thorin fought to keep the fear that statement raised within him from showing on his face. Sauron, the Great Deceiver, awake and returned to power? Yet, the Istari seemed too relaxed for the situation, speaking too openly of dark powers.

“I had heard that the One was lost for all time to the Sea.”

“I wish it had been so. You, yourself, Thorin, have seen it. Do you remember the ring that Bilbo found in Gollum’s cavern beneath Goblin Town?”

That stole the breath from his lungs for a long moment as he stared incredulously at the old man.

“It cannot be! It granted invisibility, yes, but so did the other Great Rings and some of the Lesser. I did not think…”

Gandalf nodded slowly, sadly. 

“I myself fell into that same complacency, allowing Bilbo to carry the thing back to the Shire and use it. Fortunately, hobbits are not easily given to evil, especially those with the last name of Baggins. By the time I confirmed my fears, however, it was almost too late. Bilbo had passed on the Ring to his nephew and heir, Frodo, whom you’ve already met. You may hear the full tale told later, but the short explanation is that Frodo and Sam, alone, managed to take the Ring into Mordor itself and destroy it in the Fires of Mount Doom. The Dark Tower of Barad-dûr is fallen at last, Thorin, just over two months ago now, and a king has returned to the throne of Gondor. We are waiting for embassies from the other Free Peoples to arrive, though it is taking time as almost all of Middle Earth saw battles at the last. You saw the damage done to the city as we came up through it.”

“Yes. Why, then, were the two hobbits upon the mountain alone?”

Gandalf huffed at that. 

“We had thought the danger past, and Frodo has become very restless in this city of man. He wished for a night beneath the stars as he often had back in the Shire, and none of us had the heart to deny him. I fear that Frodo may never truly heal from his experiences, even if the physical wounds are gone.”

Thorin absently nodded, mind swirling with this new information, in many ways even more unbelievable than the notion that thirteen dwarves and one hobbit could truly defeat a fire drake. He was so deep in thought that he did not note the arrival of Aragorn until the other began moving the blanket to bare the damage to his upper leg. Ignoring the sight of the dark bruises and open, bloody wound, now thankfully fairly shallow, he pinned the other with a relentless gaze.

“My sister-sons?”

“Fíli is in pain, the shoulder and side badly bruised, as you saw, but no bones are broken. The muscle spasms from that depth of injury are proving the most concerning, as the pain triggered by them in turn tightens the muscles further. I have given him a sleeping draught that should ease him for the rest of the night and into the morning, and then we shall have to see if the spasms continue. It is hard to judge without knowing the full extent of the original injuries. Kíli causes me more worry; he is in a deep shock-sleep, too deep for me to wake even with the gift of healing given to those of my lineage. He is not injured, but I cannot tell you when or if he will wake, nor the extent of the damage done. I am afraid there is little to be done but tend to the needs of his body and reassure him that he is safe and with kin.”

As he spoke, Aragorn was cleaning the damaged area, warrior’s hands surprisingly gentle and skilled. Frowning, he gave all his attention momentarily to the injury, a small metal tool slowly probing the wound, and then he lifted out an arrowhead, depositing it in a cloth held by Gandalf.

“Orc. Was that from the battle tonight or from Erebor, Thorin?”

The wizard queried, showing the tip to the wounded dwarf, who glanced at the thing, then leaned back against the headboard with a weary sigh.

“None touched me tonight.”

A grim silence answered his words for a long moment until he reopened his eyes to see the two men regarding the wound with concern. Aragorn sighed, weariness showing.

“I will place oil cloth over it. That should last long enough for you to bath, then one of the twins, Wyvern or Coryn, will dress it for you, but we will have to watch it closely for infection. Both are healing apprentices within the city, and will attend you and your kin as long as needed. They will be able to clean and check the wounds when I cannot, and are well versed in the danger signs. They are knowledgeable about the city, as well, and are willing to serve as guides when you are well enough, though it will be at least a seven-day before any weight should be placed on that leg. I am assigning them to the day, with another healer, Donel, here at night. Please do not hesitate to ask for anything that you may need, and if there are concerns for the health of any of you, they know to send for me.”

The bath felt better than any he could remember, the soft scent of an herb Aragorn had insisted on adding to the water refreshing him, lifting cares and unknotting muscles that had not known a release of tension since the fall of Erebor. The dwarf king could easily have fallen into slumber had not one of the young men, Wyvern, politely urged him to wash before water could seep into his wound under its protective covering. He carefully maneuvered out once more, warm towels provided for him, then a long silk nightshirt of a style he had seen worn among men. A brush of high quality allowed him to work out the tangles in the dark mane of his hair, resetting the braids he wore to either side of his head with a skill that apparently impressed the healer. At last, he settled among the sheets, willingly taking the draught Coryn brought over after being told it was a mild painkiller and sleep aid. Now that the screen had been removed, he could see both his nephews lying peacefully in their own beds, and Gandalf in a great padded chair before the fire, drawing slowly upon his pipe. Reassured, Thorin allowed himself to drop into a slumber that he knew he would wake from in the new day.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the fate of a kingdom is discussed, and rebirth is not without consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

6\. Kingdoms Rise and Fall

The slow snick of a wet stone being drawn over metal greeted Thorin when he at last pulled himself from the deep sleep he’d been in. Next to his bed sat Gimli, red beard as full and neatly braided as his father’s, carefully tending to one of Fíli’s twin blades, the other propped against the edge of the bed. Thorin lay still, watching silently for several minutes, assessing the dwarf warrior. The Gimli he remembered had been a mischievous dwarfling fifteen years younger than Kíli, but ever eager to follow his older cousins around. The ruckus that those three had regularly instigated around the Blue Mountains was legendary, and more than one dwarf had sighed in relief when they were taken out on training trips by Dwalin, Balin or Thorin.

Now, the afternoon light fell through the room, casting shadows upon his face that highlighted the toll taken recently upon the dwarf, no longer the fiery young one who had slammed about his parents’ home for days after being denied the right to join them on the quest for Erebor. To Thorin, it served to emphasize the truth in the tale Gandalf had told so briefly last night, and somehow the dwarf king knew this time no one had been able to gainsay Gimli’s determination to aid two hobbits in what should have been a hopeless task.

“Gimli.”

Slowly, Thorin pushed himself to a seated position, accepting the cup of water the other dwarf hastily poured for him. There was still a bit of a wild look about the young one’s eyes as he stared at his returned lord, almost as if he believed the other would disappear back into time right in front of him. Thorin smiled warmly.

“For a moment I had thought it was Glóin charging into that clearing, you have become so much like him. And you fight even better.”

Dark eyes gleamed with pleasure at the compliment, so rarely handed out and doubly precious for it.

“Thank you, Thorin. A servant just left some broth for you, it is still warm. Is there anything else that I may get you?”

Thorin shook his head, accepting the mug of thick beef broth, sipping cautiously until reassured that his stomach would handle the nourishment.

“Just news. How are Fíli and Kíli?”

Sitting up, all he could see of the two were raven and wheaten heads resting on pillows, beds piled high with blankets to ensure no chance of chill. Fíli seemed to have cushions also along his back, keeping him propped on his side facing the door.

“I helped Fíli with some broth a few hours ago. Aragorn checked those bruises, and he’s been asleep ever since, though there’s a pain and sleep draught should he need it. I warned Aragorn that was likely the only way we’d keep the stubborn fool in bed and resting long enough to heal properly. The pain had woken him, though the muscle spasms appear to have stopped - he had rolled over on the bruises.”

Thorin smiled slightly, but made no comment. Of the two, Fíli had always been the restless sleeper, which was why he was most often on the outside of the group when they had camped at night, lest he roll and smack one of the others. His brother, who could sleep through almost anything except Fíli’s shrill warning whistle, had no problem taking the inside spot, used to waking with one of his brother’s appendages digging into his own.

“And Kíli?”

Gimli’s smile was strained, a quick, troubled glance at the bed closest to the fire telling its own tale.

“Still in shock-sleep, but he is swallowing on his own, a good sign according to Aragorn. One of the young healer lads was able to get about half a cup of broth and a little water down him, and he responds to being touched on his upper body, at least. There was no response when they tried a pin on the soles of his feet, but that may take time given how he was injured.”

Or never, a voice nagged at him from the depths of his darkest thoughts. Resolutely, Thorin pushed that away, refusing to believe they would be restored to life after all this time only to condemn bright, energetic Kíli to a half-life in a crippled body. And yet…

“Erebor? How stands our kingdom?”

The question was one he had not meant to voice, another haunted spot on his soul, but anything was better than the thoughts he had just been entertaining. Gimli perked up immediately, almost puffing up with pride in his people.

“Both Erebor, under Dain, and Dale, under Bard’s son Brand, have been mostly rebuilt and prosper. Over half the mines have been stabilized and re-opened, producing fine quality stones and metals, enough to support our people for many years to come. Our craftsmen are once again being heralded far and wide for the quality of our work, and records of some of the ancient techniques have even been found, though few have yet set their hand to mastering them. Our people prosper in their home once more. The first year after the mountain was retaken, we even had more girl dwarflings born than boys, and five sets of twins! One pair of them, the little rascals, are my own sisters, Austri and Vestri.”

The prideful grin of an older brother was met with one from Thorin, for dwarf twins were rare indeed, and females made up only a third of the population, a definite concern for the continued survival of their race. His own little sister, Dis, had been deeply treasured all her life. What sorrow he had brought her in return, both her sons dead before their hundredth birthdays! Was she even still alive to see them once more? Gimli seemed to read the cloud descending upon him, one hand reaching out to rest on his royal cousin’s.

“I will see that word is sent to Dis as soon as possible. Erebor and Dale were both beset by men from Rhun under the command of one of Sauron’s lieutenants as well as orcs and goblins from the Misty Mountains, though Thranduil’s people were apparently able to keep over half of the dark creatures from ever emerging from Mirkwood, else Erebor may have fallen once more. The Great Eagles have told us that the battle raged before the very gates, men, dwarves, and elves cut off from their own people fighting side by side.”

The pride was tinged with sorrow this time, narrowing Thorin’s eyes.

“What fell news do you not say, son of Glóin?”

“Black banners were spotted afterwards flying from both the battlements of Erebor and the watchtower of Dale.”

Thorin’s eyes slipped closed, sorrow washing through him at the meaning of those simple strips of cloth.

“Both kings fell.”

“Aye, though we know no more than that. Dain and Brand both knew Mordor would not take kindly to their refusal to give information about Bilbo and his ring, but we could not betray one to whom we owe our kingdom, even if it ensured war. As it was, they stalled the fell messenger with no real answer three times. I believe that is what ensured Frodo the time to leave the Shire, though in the end he barely slipped through the hands of the Nine. It was much too close from all that the hobbits have told me as we travelled.”

His guess had been right, Gimli’s pride and the honor he held for the one who had helped return their home had been too strong to deny his aid.

“And how was it that you came to travel with Master Baggins and his burden?”

The gentle rebuke for the leap first and look afterwards attitude always displayed by Glóin and his son seemed to pass unnoticed, though it had saved Thorin’s life once or twice.

“Dain decided to send a delegation to Rivendell, both to warn Bilbo, whom we knew was living there now, and to take council with Elrond. Father volunteered, and I wasn’t willing to allow him to travel without me again, given the growing dangers of the trip. As it was, we only managed to pass through part of the wilds and the Misty Mountains because the Beornings and Radagast the Brown occupied the goblins. The filthy creatures had grown strong again, hidden in their secret caverns. When we reached Rivendell, Frodo and the Ring were already there. It was decided at council that eight of us would accompany the Ringbearer as far as we could, and I was given the honor of representing the dwarves, although there was not much choice if we should be represented. Besides my father and me, the other dwarven representatives were Thorin Stronghelm and Vili, neither of whom could undertake such a journey.”

That was certainly true enough. Thorin Stronghelm was Dain’s only son, and as such, his heir. Had Thorin himself been given a choice, either Fíli or Kíli would have been left behind in safety, but they would not be separated, nor were they anywhere near as effective apart. They had been trained to fight and act together, a mistake now that Thorin looked back on it. As for Vili, Dis’ marriage-brother had lost the use of one arm in the same mining accident that had killed his brother, the father of Fíli and Kíli. It was unexpected that he’d have even undertaken such a journey as the one to Rivendell, let alone be fit to go with a company meant to protect the Ringbearer from the beasts of Sauron.

“I have no doubts that you represented our people well, Gimli son of Glóin.”

“Aye, of that there can be no doubt. He is the first dwarf in over a thousand years to be welcomed to Lothlorien and called ‘elf-friend’. He has faced Durin’s Bane, Ringwraiths, and the Gates of Mordor themselves without flinching.”

The prideful words came not from Gimli, who now looked rather embarrassed, face coloring to match his beard, but from Legolas, Prince of the Woodland Realm, who stood in the open doorway, now dressed as befitting his station rather than the rough forest garb he’d worn the night before. Thorin scowled at the elf, about to snap at him before remembering that this elf, at least, had earned that he at the minimum be civil. As long as the prince did not bring up his father, anyway. Then something that the other had said caught his attention.

“Durin’s Bane?” He fixed a stern look on the younger dwarf. “Just what were you doing in Khazad-dûm? You know it has been forbidden to cross the threshold of that cursed place since the end of the Dwarf-Orc Wars.”

Gimli heaved a long sigh, and Legolas came over, placing a comforting hand on one of the dwarf’s shoulders, an act Thorin never thought to witness even should he suddenly be granted the lifespan of the elves.

“About thirty years ago, Balin convinced Dain to lift the ban. He took Óin, Ori, and about fifty others to attempt to reopen Moria, but no word came after their initial reports of success. The Fellowship was given no other safe passage through the mountains, so Gandalf determined to lead us through Moria, but when we were able to make our way inside, we found that all those with Balin had been slaughtered many years ago. Gandalf made a stand against Durin’s Bane at the last bridge before the Western Gate. He slew it, but it also took him until he was sent back to complete his labors against Sauron as Gandalf the White.” The red haired dwarf cocked an eye up at his elven friend. “Did you come here for a reason, Legolas, or were you just seeking someone to annoy? I’m still waiting on that keg of beer for winning our little contest last night.”

Legolas laughed a light, happy sound that those around him were hard-pressed not to join. 

“I will have it at the house where we are staying ere nightfall, my friend. No, I came to tell you both that word has been received of three delegations riding to Minas Tirith from my father’s realm, the men of Dale, and the dwarves of Erebor. The message said that the men are led by Baren, nephew of Bard II, the new King of Dale, the elves by my older sister, Princess Aria, and the dwarves are under the leadership of your father, Glóin.”

The wince Gimli gave told Thorin all he needed to know about the current relations between the two peoples, not that he expected any different. The damn elves never forgave, nor forgot, and he had vowed to match them insult for insult.

“Let us hope that the men of Dale ride between, then, or we will have begun battling anew ere they arrive here.” Gimli sighed, “Though I pity the poor men.”

Legolas shook his head, a slight twitch of the lips betraying his amusement.

“Rather save your pity for your father, Gimli, for he will be in need of it along with the beer you just won. The Lady Dis rides with those from Erebor.”

Both dwarves smiled at that, having no trouble imagining the long suffering Glóin attempting to (grudgingly) keep the peace between the lady and the haughty elven princess. The two had long hated one another with a passion, Dis, as a young dwarfling, taking great pleasure in ensuring Aria’s stay at any conference within Erebor would be miserable. Gimli laughed lightly, having undoubtedly been regaled with the stories at some point in time.

“Aye, I fear the lady’s tongue has grown sharper with age!”

“Which lady’s tongue has grown sharper with age?”

Fíli asked from behind Legolas as he moved slowly across the room, stiffness betraying the pain he was in. With his one good hand, he was attempting to put a braid back in his hair. Dis had instilled a bit too much neatness in that one, perhaps.

“Not even you can braid one handed, Fíli.” Thorin observed, amused, but heartened to see one of his nephews up and around, even if he was still wearing only a long silk sleep-shirt. “Sit. I won’t ask what you are doing out of bed when your healer clearly told you to stay put.”

Fíli flushed guiltily, “The muscles aren’t going into spasms any more, and I hate just lying there. All I can see is Kíli falling, being unable to get to him, and not being able to wake. Besides, I didn’t really want to…sleep…for a while, anyway. It was- It reminds of-“

Dying. The unspoken word hung thick in the air between them and Thorin counted himself a fool for not realizing sooner how it would feel to be trapped under the drugs, forced to drift into blackness- He tore himself from that thought lest he not have the courage to face sleep himself this night. Desperate for a distraction, he latched onto Gimli’s earlier statement.

“Our Gimli and Legolas have both had run-ins with your mother’s tongue and temper, I fear. She travels here with the delegation from Erebor.”

His nephew’s eyebrows both flew up at that, for dwarf women rarely travelled among other races, at least not visibly as females, wearing male clothing, leading to some rather absurd rumors about the Khazad. Dis, as the granddaughter of a king, had certainly been involved in politics since she was a youngling, even becoming a principal advisor to her brother after the death of their grandfather and the disappearance of their father. Events, however, must be truly extraordinary for her to ride openly so far from her home, not to mention be recognized by an elf, even one of the royal family.

“Gimli I could see, he endured a few of mother’s tongue lashings with Kíli and I when we were younger, but where did you meet her, Master Elf?”

“I am the younger child of King Thranduil,” Fíli’s eyes darted between Legolas and Thorin at that, as if waiting for an eruption, but his uncle only smiled slightly. “And as such, am often sent to meet with those outside our borders. One meeting took place within Erebor itself shortly after the mountain was reclaimed, and father did not, perhaps, take the most care in choosing those to send. One of my companions made a rather indiscrete comment in Sindarin, assuming that none of your people would understand. Unfortunately, the young dwarf acting as scribe did, repeating the remarks in Westron for his fellows; tempers flared and weapons were drawn, including my own I regret to say. The Lady Dis stormed into the room, astonishment at seeing a dwarf woman momentarily staying all our hands, and she planted herself between the combatants, heedless of the weaponry, and then proceeded to soundly scold both sides as if speaking to the youngest and most foolish children. She correctly pointed out that we did the work of the Enemy for him, such profound sadness in her eyes that it compelled even the eldest and angriest among us to heed her words.”

Fíli chuckled and Thorin’s smile spread to a slightly smug grin, both easily picturing the lady that they loved taking such actions. Dis did not suffer fools lightly, even her own brother, as she sharply reminded him the night before he left their home when he refused to consider her advice to seek refuge in Rivendell should the company run into trouble or suffer injury along the road. He had retorted that he would rather seek succor with goblins if he recalled correctly, a flippant remark he had definitely rued deep under the Misty Mountains. That fight had perhaps influenced him overly much in his rejection of similar advice from Gandalf, but had worked to their advantage when he finally set aside his pride and heeded it, allowing Elrond to examine the map of Erebor.

Suddenly, Fíli stiffened, knocking him from his thoughts as the younger dwarf jerked away from his uncle even though Thorin still held one of his freshly redone braids. The blond, however, didn’t seem to notice the pulled hair as he curled over his bruised side, face pale and gasping in pain. Thorin quickly grabbed him before he could tumble from the bed, one hand against Fíli’s side, where he could feel the knotted muscles that robbed his nephew of breath. Legolas was out the door before anyone else could move, the twins quickly concluding that their healer training would be of more use in the room than trying to find help quicker than the fleet-footed elf. Coryn and Gimli guided the injured dwarf down until he lay on his good side, head pillowed on Thorin’s uninjured thigh, deftly stripping the nightshirt while maintaining some dignity for Fíli with blankets. The bindings on his chest were quickly cut, then Wyvern returned with a steaming bowl of water. The poultice of crushed leaves was gently cleaned from the bruising and hot cloths laid to ease the muscles. Meanwhile, Thorin found himself once more in the role of parent, hands soothingly stroking the blond hair, murmuring reassurances as he had one long cold night in the Blue Mountains when Fíli was fretful with a high fever.

Aragorn appeared, formal clothing and circlet making it plain that he’d been pulled from his duties to the realm, though he took no heed as he knelt by the bed, exchanging soft words with the two healing apprentices. Fresh water arrived, this time so hot that the servant carried it with cloths around the bowl to protect her hands. To this, the king added several herbs, one of which filled the room with the familiar scent from the bath water last night. The bowl was set near Fíli’s head and a cloth placed over both, trapping the steam for the young dwarf to breathe in. Aragorn gently placed a hand on the still heaving rib cage, monitoring the breathing.

“Easy, Fíli, just breathe. Let the steam relax you; do not force your lungs so. That’s it, good lad. Do you feel the muscles easing?”

The head under the cloth nodded slightly, body going limp, energy completely spent. With a reassuring squeeze of his lower arm, the man stood, moving to join the twins where they worked at a small table. Thorin watched silently as they mixed a compound in a small jar before a measure of it was poured into a cup, the king returning to the bedside with it in hand. When the bowl and covering cloth were removed, he could see that his nephew’s face was red, sweat still on his brow, but he was relaxed, eyes almost sagging into sleep. The man carefully seated himself on a low stool by the bed so that he no longer towered over them, concerned gaze meeting that of the dwarf king.

“Coryn tells me that Fíli refused to take the sleep and pain draught I left. Did he tell you why?”

Thorin’s hand gently ran over the wheaten hair reassuringly as he felt the other stir in disquiet at the question.

“It would not allow him to wake when the memories of the battle and…after…caught him. He saw Kíli fall, too far away to prevent it.”

The black head of the man dropped, eyes shut in an understanding pain that only one who had shared such a black moment would know. Silence, peaceful and unbroken, fell over the room for several minutes, than Aragorn’s head came up, gazing across at the brothers’ beds, considering. On his thigh, Thorin felt Fíli stir, reaching his good hand toward the man to capture his attention. Aragorn smiled slightly, meeting his patient’s eyes.

“It cannot help that you are forced to lie on your right side, Kíli unseen behind you.”

“No,” The elder brother whispered, then added, “Is there nothing that could stop the pain without forcing me to sleep?”

“There is, but you must understand that it will relax all the muscles, leaving you unable to do anything for yourself. It can also be dangerous to use as it must be precisely measured and each dosage timed. Are you willing to face that? We must use either the relaxant or the sleep draughts for you to heal, Fíli, I am sorry. To simply continue with you in pain as you are would prolong the healing and could lead you to become ill with the stress.”

Thorin accepted a cool cloth, wiping it gently over his sister-son’s face as the healer-king spoke to him, pretending not to see the tears mixing with the sweat. Between the exhaustion, pain, stress of this new, unknown time and place, and the memories, the young one was stretched to the very breaking point and beyond, a few tears providing a tiny amount of needed emotional release. Faced with the humiliation of having everything done for him as a baby would or the horror of memory and nightmare, Thorin knew without doubt which he would choose, but kept silent, respecting Fíli’s right to decide for himself. Still so very young, both of them, yet they had proven themselves beyond any expectation even their exacting uncle could have.

“The relaxant, please. Only-“

“What is it, Fíli?” Aragorn gently prompted before the older dwarf could.

“I do not want to be left alone.”

Thorin closed his eyes, the quiet, dignified words just barely tinged with desperation tearing at his very soul. What had he done, allowing these two precious beings to follow him in his blind madness? How could he hope for them to find healing? Though if Kíli yet slipped from them…

“You will not be alone, Fíli, you have my promise upon that.”

The dwarf king started at hearing Gandalf’s solemn vow, meeting those old, wise eyes in mute thanks. So concerned had he been with the one resting in his lap, he hadn’t even heard the wizard come in.

“If Gimli and Legolas or I cannot be here,” Gandalf continued, “I know of four hobbits who would also gladly keep you company, though I fear it will be a few days before Frodo can visit. He, too, is still confined to bed, recovering.”

“Four?!”

Thorin blurted incredulously, remembering all too clearly the insular nature of the Shire. One hobbit willing to leave his hole had been unheard of, two a complete shock, but four! Gandalf just laughed, obviously pleased at disconcerting his old travelling companion.

“Oh, yes. There are Frodo and Samwise, whom you have met, and two young cousins of Frodo and Bilbo, Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took. I think those two will find much in common with Fíli and Kíli.”

On his other side, Gimli groaned. 

“Only if the rest of us can survive the resulting mischief. Pippin has been much too bored lately; I found the salt and sugar switched this morning, the young rascal lurking around a corner to howl with delight when I ruined my morning tea.”

The wizard caught Thorin’s gaze, merry twinkling eyes and a slight smile saying that a bit of childish mischief might not be a bad thing for the brothers. The elder dwarf tilted his head, willing to concede the point, though he feared he might regret it later. A scraping from across the room caught his attention in time to see the twins and Legolas move Fíli’s bed to the other side of the one holding the still form of Kíli, then push the two together so that both could easily reach the other. Would that all their problems be so easily remedied!

Fíli was given the liquid Aragorn had prepared, then moved back to his own bed, good hand instantly latching on to the nearest of Kili’s limp ones. With a nod, Gondor’s king withdrew, no doubt headed back to whatever he had interrupted to respond to Legolas’ summons. Thorin watched him go thoughtfully, wondering to himself if his grandfather would ever have done the same.

“Gondor will have to adapt itself to a new king, for I do not see Aragorn ever willingly changing. He is a healer at heart, much as his father was, and his foster-father is.”

Gandalf’s quiet comment received a slow nod of agreement as the dwarf watched the wizard drag a large cushioned chair to the brothers’ bedside, settling in with his pipe. The deep, soothing voice of the old man began a story about Bilbo to the barely awake Fíli, ensuring that the young one would soon drift off with peaceful images to mind. Satisfied that his nephew was settled, Thorin allowed himself to be drawn down by his body’s own exhaustion, thinking to rest only for a few hours.

Thorin’s body, however, betrayed him. Afterwards, he had only vague memories of feeling hot and restless, his own voice complaining as a cup was put to his lips with a foul tasting liquid inside, pain. Nearby, someone discussed a fever, but he could not stir himself to investigate further. Screaming. Who was screaming? Kíli? Dark dreams of the battles he’d fought took him then, those long dead becoming as distinct as the living that tended him, insisting on bathing him with cold cloths and forcing him to drink bitter liquids before the beef broth and water he craved. Why could they not leave him alone? These whisperings, screaming, of failures past, of pain he’d brought upon them all, unable to provide for his people no matter how hard he tried. Then came a burning, more painful than dragon’s fire, flashing through every nerve of his body until darkness descended. Finally, he was allowed to rest undisturbed by phantoms or reality, waking only enough to follow directions to bath, attend to his body, or eat as one walking through a dream. The passage of time was forever marked only by the gradual change of the meals from those of an invalid to more substantial fare, until with the light of a late afternoon on his face, Thorin finally woke.


	7. Mischief Managed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which youthful indiscretions are discussed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

7\. Mischief Managed

It was the full voiced laughter that pulled him from peaceful slumber, a happy sound that some part of his mind informed him he’d not heard in too long from his suddenly serious older nephew. He rolled sleepily, too content to really move all that much and alert those around him that he was awake to be prodded once again; Thorin barely cracked his eyes open, surveying the scene across the room unnoticed. Their room had apparently become an impromptu gathering place, at least at the moment. Gandalf was occupying that large chair, all four hobbits beside him, then Legolas and Gimli beyond them. At the end of the bed was Aragorn, back to Thorin, head also thrown back in laughter, and another, younger, man with brown hair and the stubble of a brown beard. 

On top of the covers of his bed sat Fíli, dressed in new clothes of dwarvish style and in his preferred colors of brown, hair neatly done, with only his arm in a cloth sling to mark his injury. A smile creased his face and eyes twinkled merrily. Next to him on the other bed, Kíli was sitting up under the covers, silently chuckling, pale except for two bright spots on his cheeks indicating a low fever. That explained only hearing Fíli’s laughter, than, for the younger brother often lost his voice when he was ill, occasionally for days if he suffered from a particularly nasty head cold. His eyes, though, troubled Thorin, for that had always been the easiest way to read Kili’s true thoughts. They weren’t twinkling in merriment as his brother’s were, but were dark and shadowed, as if forcing himself to put on a show for those around him. Eyes narrowed, the dwarf king stayed silent, content for the moment to observe, watching every move his younger nephew made.

“Aye,” Gimli was grinning smugly, “I’ll definitely enjoy being older than these two. You’ve no idea what trouble they led an innocent, impressionable dwarfling into!”

Kíli rolled his eyes at that, hand coming up in a few shaky Iglishmêk signs, the weakness worrying, but at least he was awake and taking part in the conversation. Fíli, as he always did when Kíli was once again forced to rest his voice to regain it, translated his brother’s signs into speech in a full, coherent sentence that no other would’ve been able to make from the gestures. He was so used to it that he no longer even bothered to start every sentence with ‘Kíli said’, speaking instead as if a surrogate voice for the other.

‘Innocent? Hardly! It wasn’t Fíli and I who poured honey into Oin’s ear trumpet!’

“No, I’ll freely admit that one was me.” Gimli snorted in rueful memory. “My poor uncle thought he was losing what hearing he had left- his ear was full of the bees’ buzzing!”

Not to mention that the entire settlement was forced to yell conversations with the older dwarf until a way had been found to clean the sticky stuff out, Thorin added to himself a bit grumpily. No one had suspected the still tiny Gimli of the stunt, either.

“I, my dear cousin,” the red bearded dwarf continued, “was not the one, however, who decided hanging a pig’s bladder full of ink over the back door of the forge as a target for slingshots was a good idea. That was the two of you!”

Fíli laughed at that, “I remember poor Balin’s face when he walked out just as Kíli finally hit the thing! It took weeks for all the purple dye to wear out of his hair and beard!”

‘And we had to fetch and carry in the forge for him until it did!’

The tone even matched the disgruntled look on the youngest dwarf’s face.

“Oh, but I can go one better than that!” Aragorn sat up in his chair, face no doubt creased in a grin had Thorin been able to see it, “And it cost me the chance of meeting all of you the night your company stayed in Rivendell, too. I was ten, living there with my mother after my father’s death, and learning under Lord Elrond. As part of the household, my mother and I were often invited to dine with the family, an event I usually dreaded since it meant I must sit quietly at the table until the adults finished talking instead of running off to play in the evening calm. I also was not exceptionally taken as a youngling with music especially that of the flute played by Lindir’s wife, Linell, and she inevitably took up a position right behind me. This time I decided I was going to give them all a surprise, and put some soap in her flute, the kind that children are often given to blow bubbles with. Of course, she started playing and we soon had bubbles drifting over the table, landing on food to pop and turn its taste a soapy sour one. Neither my mother nor Lord Elrond were amused, though my foster-brothers, Elrond’s sons Elrohir and Elladan, swore they wished they’d thought of it years ago, and as punishment, I was not allowed to attend the next dinner I actually wanted to- one with thirteen dwarves, a hobbit, and one wizard. I often wonder how it might have changed things had I met Gandalf and Bilbo as a child instead of an adult.”

Silence, the comfortable kind between good friends, descended for a long moment, then was interrupted by a sharp warning.

“Do not even think about it, Peregrin Took!”

Gandalf’s stern glare at one of the young hobbits produced only a very contrived look of pure innocence, similar to that so often worn by his erring nephews when they had been caught contemplating mischief. One hand went to his breast as the small hobbit stood dramatically.

“Gandalf, you wound me! Would I ever entertain such a notion?”

“Your family name is Took, isn’t it?” The wizard growled back, “And you were the one who knocked a skeleton down a well in Moria, alerting every goblin there we were about, weren’t you? Not to mention the one who could not resist taking a certain shiny object right out of the hands of a sleeping wizard, leaving me with a stone! Or how about a bit of rather explosive mischief at a certain party?”

“Well…” The hobbit seemed at a momentary loss for words, and then straightened. “I hardly think that’s fair, that last one was all Merry’s idea!”

“Pip-pin!” The brown haired hobbit, apparently Merry, objected loudly.

“All right, you two, let’s hear it. You can’t throw out references like that without the full story. Bofur told me all about that party when he returned to Erebor and didn’t mention any explosion.”

Gimli eyed Merry and Pippin suspiciously, though Gandalf simply snorted.

“Bofur was inside Bag End trying to calm down Bifur, who seemed to think the fireworks were an assault; he probably didn’t know anything unusual had happened.” At the confused looks from Kíli and Fíli, the old wizard elaborated. “We’ve mentioned that after Erebor was reclaimed, Bilbo returned to Bag End and took in Frodo. Well, the two happen to share a birthday, September 22, so Bilbo started throwing large parties for it every year. When Frodo came of age at 33, he decided to leave the Shire after throwing one final, huge party, and several dwarves, including Bofur and Bifur, came to keep him company on the road. They also delivered wagon loads of presents and toys Bilbo had purchased for the occasion from Erebor and Dale, so no one suspected anything was planned beyond the hobbit’s usual hospitality to dwarves. At least to ones who don’t throw around his dishes.” 

Both brothers grinned, slightly abashed, leading Thorin to wonder just what had happened at the hobbit hole before he arrived that fateful night.

“I, of course, agreed to provide some of my fireworks, including a special one in honor of Bilbo that I hoped would make some of his relatives think about if all his tales were truly as made up as they believed. However, two young hobbits who shall remain nameless snuck into where I was storing them, stole the special firework, and proceeded to light it, all without stopping to realize that they had neglected to leave the tent. It went off, taking the shape of a large dragon, and scared several years off most of the hobbits there.”

“Including me.” Frodo added, with a stern glance at his cousins. “Bilbo didn’t even see it, he was too busy telling some children the story about the trolls, then I was pushing him in the dirt as it soared right over our heads. He was most put out that he didn’t get to finish the tale.”

Fíli groaned aloud, “Please, don’t ever bring up those stupid trolls to my uncle, he still hasn’t forgiven us. Not to mention it was all rather embarrassing. I had my face in the dirt the whole time with Óin and Glóin on top of me!”

‘Better than me, Bombur’s heavy! And Thorin kicked me.’

“Ah, I’d wondered what made you and Óin suddenly realize what Bilbo was doing. When something wants to eat you, telling it you’re the best quality meat isn’t the brightest thing to do.”

Kíli promptly smacked his brother on his good shoulder, Fíli grinning wickedly.

‘I thought we said we weren’t mentioning trolls! Plus it doesn’t count, we weren’t children and it certainly wasn’t intentional!’

Everyone laughed at that, including the rather red faced brothers. As the noise died down, Legolas leaned forward.

“It does not matter as I can easily beat you all in this. Children are rare among the elves, so we rarely have another near our age to play with, making adults very tempting targets. We also have a great deal of time in which to be inventive, as we are not considered adults until at least 200 years old. I simply do not know which story to tell you, I have so many.”

Suddenly a white haired head lifted toward the ceiling, delight bubbling forth, blue eyes flashing in remembrance.

“I do, my dear Legolas. Tell them about the first meeting of what became the White Council, surely you recall it.”

“I believe I could do without your aid in this, Mithrandir.”

The wood elf’s tone was dry, sparking curiosity in the rest of the gathering, including Thorin. He shifted slowly so that he was sitting up; not wanting to miss a word of something that would potentially show his old foe, Thranduil, in bad light, for surely the prince’s father would be involved in some way. Across from him, Fíli noted his movement, face lighting up in welcome, to which Thorin gave a quick sign in Iglishmêk- ‘Quiet. I’m listening.’ The younger dwarf settled back, but whispered something in his brother’s ear, Kili’s eyes darting across the room than away before signing once again.

‘This I want to hear. Go ahead, please.’

“Very well. Keep in mind, however, that I was very young at the time, perhaps fifty. I was fascinated with noise, trying to discover where it came from and how to make the loudest possible clatter, when I found that one of the oils used in our kitchens was clear when spilled, and very slick. I decided to oil the hallway between the main armory and the defensive positions along the gates, then set the alarm ringing. About fifty of my father’s guards came running down the hall in full armor- and right onto the oil, sending them spinning in every direction. It produced a most satisfying cacophony; however, I had overlooked one small detail. My father was meeting with the Lord and Lady of Lothlorien, Lord Elrond and three of the Istari in a room just one door down from the armory. They, of course, responded as well. I fear father, Lord Celeborn, and Saruman were the first to arrive, joining the pile of elven warriors upon the floor. Mithrandir and Radagast were able to prevent the Lady Galadriel from also slipping else I should not have dared step foot inside Lorien, but the Lord Elrond was not so fortunate. He does have remarkable balance and kept his feet, but slid down the center of the hall as if upon a sheet of ice, arms flailing frantically for any purchase before bringing himself to a halt by grabbing a statue. As young as I was, I thought this the greatest of fun. My father was not amused.”

The last sentence was as dry as the plains of Gorgoroth. Thorin could not help it, he threw back his head and laughed, a deep release that he had not indulged in for many a year. Oh, how he wished he could have borne witness to those stiff necked arrogant asses sliding upon the floor in disarray! Startled, the rest of the room was a beat behind him in their own merriment, Aragorn almost toppling his chair in his mirth. Among the laughter, Fíli could be heard to mutter.

“I think the elf just won.”


	8. Time of Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin learns the cost of his return to life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

8\. Time of Healing

As the laughter died down once more, the others quietly took their leave until only Aragorn and Gandalf remained in the room with the three royal dwarves. The man was working intently on a paste of some kind in a small bowl, a preparation Thorin watched with distaste as he’d no doubt who its intended recipient was. The wizard, meanwhile, had spoken softly with Fíli and Kíli, then moved to a chair by the dwarf king’s bed, scrutinizing him closely.

“Yes, you are looking much better.”

Thorin frowned at the odd remark, eyeing the old man warily. 

“And what is that supposed to mean?” He finally broke down, asking sharply.

Gandalf snorted, “I see all the sleep hasn’t improved your temper. Your wound became severely infected. If not for the healing abilities of Aragorn, I’ve no doubt we would have lost you again, an experience I am in no hurry to repeat. It’s been almost seven days, Thorin.”

That sent him reeling, for a day or two he would have understood, but seven? No wonder Fíli had seemed about to jump from bed when he realized his uncle was awake. His eyes shot to the other side of the room, where both brothers still lay, watching intently. Gandalf followed his gaze.

“I asked Fíli to stay put for now so that Aragorn and I could speak to you alone. They are healing, but there are concerns.”

The man joined them, bowl in hand, and wordlessly set about carefully removing the old bandage from Thorin’s wound. The dwarf glanced at it once and hastily turned his gaze back to the wizard; the sight of his own flesh puckered and burned oddly nauseating for one who’d thought himself used to battle and its aftermath. Obviously, they had been forced to cauterize the wound, either due to the infection or bleeding.

“This will aid in healing the burn,” Aragorn told him quietly as he lightly spread the paste upon the blistered, raw skin, “You should be able to walk on it, but it will be painful for some time to come. I’d prefer you stay in bed the rest of today, but you may rise tomorrow if you feel up to it. As for your nephews…”

The healer glanced over his shoulder, then turned back to him with a small smile.

“Fíli is doing well. You no doubt noticed he’s dressed, but he will not tolerate being apart from his brother for more than a few minutes at a time. He fell asleep bathing last night and woke in a panic attack; he was certain Kíli was dead once more and would not be convinced until able to feel his brother’s heart beat.”

Thorin picked at a loose thread on the blanket restlessly. He could handle almost anything, even a dragon, but he’d never been adept at emotions. Raising his head, he considered his options silently, noting once more the ring upon Aragorn’s finger.

“Was Arathorn your father?”

Whatever replies the man had expected, it wasn’t that, the question momentarily putting him at a loss for words.

“I- Yes, he was. Did you know him?”

“Yes,” Thorin didn’t elaborate, but in his memory, he still pictured the tall Chieftain of the Rangers who’d won his trust with the respect and caring he’d shown refugees not even of his own race. “I see much of him in you, so I will ask you, what do you advise? How might I best help Fíli with this?”

It was a hard thing to even contemplate, placing those two lives in this man’s hands, especially when Thorin was not certain he trusted himself, yet something told him deep inside that this time his path was true. The healer shined from the very soul of this one, not the corruption so often seen in man, a new age indeed when he could look outside his own people for aid.

“Encourage him, but do not belittle the fears or force a separation. I believe in time it will fade, though I doubt the two will ever again tolerate a lengthy absence from one another. Be mindful of that if they are ever in a position of danger again, for Fíli will do anything to keep his brother from harm, and may over react or rush in hastily, heedless of himself. For now, he will try to coddle Kíli, which I’ve no doubt his brother will only tolerate up to a point, so allow them to sort it out themselves. They need to test this new relationship and come to terms that they both may live with.”

That did not sound as if Thorin would be having any peace for some time, for once Kíli decided to set those limits, Fíli would not handle it well if their past fights while growing up were any indication.

“As for Kíli…” Aragorn hesitated, allowing Thorin to brace himself for whatever news was to come. “He is healing, though running an intermittent fever that I can find no cause for. He is also having some difficulty with language, mostly mixing up or forgetting words when tired or stressed, something I’ve seen before with the level of shock-sleep he was in. That may or may not change as he regains his strength. He also woke from sleeping this morning screaming, the second time that has occurred, though he’s not been able to tell us what he dreamed. I told him to rest his voice for the day, given that your people have a ready nonverbal form of communication. I’ve noted he also falls back on signs when unable to recall a word, which is perfectly fine so long as whoever is with him makes him repeat the correct verbal version. His legs are what truly concern me, a subject that with his approval and yours, I intend to bring up with Lord Elrond when he arrives.”

Thorin scowled at that, but did not object, willing to put up even with an elf if it ensured the best treatment for his nephew. That didn’t mean he intended to blindly agree with whatever was recommended, however!

“What is wrong with his legs?” 

He pressed, watching his youngest sister-son past Aragorn’s shoulder. The object of his scrutiny noticed and squirmed uncomfortably until his elder brother said something that drew away his attention. Aragorn pressed his lips together, sharing another wearied look with Gandalf.

“From what Gandalf can remember of Kili’s injuries at the Battle of the Five Armies, his spine was severed by a sword blow. The Arkenstone appears to have healed it as Kíli has feeling in his legs, but he does not yet have voluntary control over them. The nerve reactions that I tested- involuntary reactions that all races have if you lightly strike the correct part of the body- are also not as strong as they should be. Whether time will change this, I cannot say, but it is very distressing for him, which is one reason for the discussion we were having when you woke.”

“You were distracting him.”

The care that this one showed, a newly crowned king who must set a realm torn apart by war to rights taking the time to sit with someone he barely knew! It simply re-enforced the choice Thorin had already made about the man. Aragorn smiled a little ruefully.

“As I said, it was but one rational. I fear the other was a bit more selfish upon my part- I desired a time and company among which I could be simply ‘Aragorn, Ranger of the North’, and not ‘King Elessar’.”

The exiled dwarf king met his counterpart’s gaze in mutual understanding, for though Thorin had not been required to tolerate the formalities of holding court outside a few occasions due to his lack of a kingdom, it did not mean that he was free of obligations. He had travelled at least once a year to all of the villages built by the exiles, ensuring security, arbitrating disputes between clans of dwarves or dwarves and other races, and doing all that he could to keep his people going until he could return their true home to them. When not doing these rounds, he had worked in the forge owned by himself, Balin, and Dwalin, earning money to aid his people, though he came to treasure those times, for he could be simply ‘Thorin’ with the warrior brothers, putting aside the mantle of prince, and even that of surrogate father and mentor to his sister-sons.

“Do not lose that ability to take yourself away from your role, or the people who may tell you freely to your face that you are being a fool,” Behind Aragorn, the wizard’s face started to crease in a smile at the dwarf king’s words, “For I once did, and it almost led to disaster for my people. The cost I paid was much too high.”

Thorin nodded meaningfully toward the two across the room, once more drawn to thank Mahal for this miracle wrought in their lives, that they should draw breath once more instead of decay in the cold stone of the mountain. Aragorn nodded thoughtfully.

“I fear that I shall scandalize most of the nobles of this land, for they lived long with the strict formalities and distance of Ecthelion and Denethor, but I intend to ensure there are those who do not defer to me even after most of those who were in this room are gone. That is why I have begun inviting Faramir to such gatherings, though I would do so anyway as his older brother was one of the eight who set out with Frodo. We lost Boromir to orcs near the Falls of Rauros; else he would now be my steward in his younger brother’s stead, though I believe Faramir will do well enough. It may help, however, if you would be willing to speak with him, as one who knows the value of such things. I have tried to urge him to informality with me, but he will not heed my words as true.”

“I fear that is partially the legacy of Denethor,” Gandalf leaned forward, entering their soft discussion. “Faramir learned early that his father’s regard was conditional upon unquestioning obedience, for only Boromir was allowed the freedom to speak his mind within their father’s hearing and even that was limited. He does not trust that such is untrue of you, Aragorn. You have private meetings scheduled throughout the morning tomorrow, perhaps Faramir could be asked to escort Thorin to the markets? A short trip would do him no harm. If you are willing, that is?” 

The wizard added, looking to the dwarf for agreement. 

“I would. All three of us,” He waved a hand in the direction of his sister-sons, “have need of necessities, though I do not know what I can do for coin.”

“You could see if anyone has interest in a few of my knives, uncle. I can always replace them, and dwarven make should fetch a substantial price this far south, especially if the trade routes were disrupted by war.”

Fíli sat down upon the other side of Thorin’s bed, laying several of the offered items in front of him, grinning, unrepentant at having ease-dropped. It heartened the older dwarf to hear himself addressed by familial title as opposed to his name, something he’d not realized he missed when Fíli had insisted he and his brother stick to formality while with the company. Thorin looked through the proposed items, noting with approval that Fíli had selected only those without the crest of Durin that was present on the hilts of many of the weapons carried by Thorin, Fíli and Kíli. 

“These will do.”

“The crown can certainly provide-“

Aragorn began, only to be cut off curtly by Thorin.

“No, it is enough that you have already provided several sets of clothing for each of us. These will serve to finance what else we require until I may have words with my sister.” Abruptly aware of how his words may be taken by the other, he drew in a breath. “I thank you sincerely for all you have done for us, but it is not my way to depend on anyone else to provide for myself or my kin. I apologize if my words were sharp-“

It was the man’s turn to wave a hand of dismissal, stopping his words.

“You have been very ill and dependent upon strangers for aid, then slumbered under the pull of exhaustion for many more days; I would be the last to cast blame for words spoken in frustration. I would ask only that you allow yourself to rest as needed. Faramir would also benefit from time away from his duties, so take as long as you like tomorrow. And you, Fíli, are certainly correct in your estimate of the value of the knives you have. Trade is one of the many things I hope to re-establish with the northern lands, for few dared travel widely in recent years. If you agree, I will ask Faramir to stop in after the evening meal and discuss the day with you, he should be able to give you a reasonable idea of their worth in Gondor.”

“That would be fine, thank you.”

It was hard for one to look regal sitting in bed in a nightshirt, but Thorin Oakenshield managed it with a simple tilt of his black maned head.

After the two men and the wizard had left the room, Thorin slowly eased himself to the side of his bed, noting with relief that for the first time that he could remember, they were truly alone. If he fell flat attempting to place weight on his injured leg, the last thing he wanted was any kind of audience. 

“Fíli.” The younger dwarf looked up from the knife he was examining, then stood rapidly when he saw his uncle’s position. “Come and give me a hand, I need to stand.”

Fíli looked doubtful, but didn’t argue the order, while a rather rude noise came from the other occupant of the room, who scowled thunderously. Thorin ignored the exchange, accepting his nephew’s strong hand as he pulled himself upright and allowed the younger dwarf to steady him through the resulting dizzy spell. It had been too long since he was upright. The blond glanced over his shoulder and turned back with a grimace.

“Kíli hasn’t been the most compliant patient around. Between his fever and his legs, he’s been insufferable.” 

The comment, while softly spoken and laden with deep worry, was apparently still heard for a small pillow came sailing through the air to impact with the elder brother’s shoulder. Fíli simply picked it up and tossed it back in a gentle arc that landed on the younger one’s lap, an unusual move for the elder brother, who would normally be yelling at the petulant perpetrator, ill or not. Thorin silently raised an eyebrow at the younger dwarf, who shrugged.

“He’s frustrated and angry. A few thrown pillows at least let him burn off some of the energy without damaging anything. Two days ago I caught him pounding at his legs so hard he still has bruises.” Fíli sank down on the edge of the bed, Thorin joining him, albeit less gracefully, “I don’t know what to do, uncle, and I- “

The other cut off, and Thorin brought his hand up to cup the back of Fíli’s neck, bringing the blond head toward him until their foreheads touched. For one so young, sheltered, his sister-son was showing an amazing strength and maturity through all this, especially given how scared he must have been when his uncle’s fever blazed. Fíli’s shoulders slumped, weary relief at his uncle’s return to health and leadership evident in his posture.

“You’ve done well, but let me take some of the load for you now, nephew. You do not have to be strong with me, here in this room. Neither of you do.”

A single tear tracked its way down Fíli’s face, unheeded, as he swallowed hard, head dropping until he was staring at the blanket. A nod was Thorin’s only answer, but he did not push. Instead, he used the tightened hand on the younger dwarf’s good shoulder to push himself to his feet once more. 

Staying in bed would not aid his sister-sons; his leg would just have to prove itself able to handle the weight a day early. The first step sent a flaring burn up from the wound site, but Thorin ignored it beyond a single grunt, forcing his leg to move. Kíli looked up at his approach, all the terror, anger, pain, and frustration swirling in his dark eyes, tears shining in them, threatening to spill, for to be less than whole was to face possible rejection by their own people. Thorin did not say a word as he sank to sit on the bed, drawing the other to him in a tight embrace even as the thin shoulders began heaving with released emotion. The bed jostled, but the older dwarf didn’t need to look up to know Fíli had carefully climbed to them from the other side, good hand rubbing his brother’s back as a golden head leaned into the two dark ones. Together. Alive. It was enough for now.


	9. Friends Old and New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin gives some advice and surprises an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

9\. Friends Old and New

When the knock came on the door, Thorin was seated in the large chair before the fire, lamenting his lack of pipe and pipe weed. After both brothers had fallen into an emotionally exhausted slumber, he had found clothing for himself, ignoring the whispered objection of Wyvern when the healer apprentice appeared with their dinners. Dwarves recovered quickly, especially stubborn ones, an advantage these men did not take note of in their well-meant restrictions. Thorin knew of old his own limits and would not pass them. 

He ate hungrily, though he did not attempt to wake Fíli and Kíli, a decision the young man agreed with after checking upon the two. Wyvern assured him that the food would be available fresh from the kitchens when the brothers were ready for it; they had only to knock upon the wall to bring him or his twin from the next room, or Donel, should they not wake until after moonrise, when the older healer took over for the night. The dwarves were now well enough that the healers could allow them privacy while yet being readily available, a courtesy Thorin was grateful for. 

The solitude was welcome that night as he settled before the fire, thoughts turning to how he would handle the soon to arrive delegation from Erebor, attempting to map out the repercussions of his sudden resurrection with what little he knew of current dwarf politics. Ideally, he needed more up to date information than that provided by Gimli, who, like Glóin, did not care to follow the intricacies unless it affected his investments. Several hours passed unnoticed before the knock interrupted him at last.

Awkwardly, he made his way to the door upon a leg grown stiff from sudden exercise then sitting, opening it to find the young man with brown hair who’d been seated next to Aragorn when he woke. The man gave a brief bow, seemingly not at all surprised to find the dwarf king had disobeyed his healer’s instructions.

“Lord Thorin. We have not had an opportunity to be properly introduced. I am Faramir, Steward of Gondor.”

Also the Prince of Ithilien, Thorin recalled Gandalf telling him, yet he’d not introduced himself with the highest of his titles as most nobility of men or elves would have. There was humility in this one that was a match to Aragorn’s own; perhaps he would serve well in the role the King of Gondor wished him to assume after all. Like his own closest friend, Dwalin, this one also had the grace of a warrior and the solid strength of one who has seen battle, unruffled by whatever circumstances should bring. Thorin inclined his head in respectful greeting, stepping back to invite the man in.

“I would prefer to be addressed informally as simply Thorin, my lord prince. My people do not stand upon formality among friends. Please, come in, though we will need to keep our voices low, my sister-sons are both asleep.”

A smile lightened the man’s features at Thorin’s remarks, genuine and open.

“Just Faramir, please. When addressed as prince, I still look over my shoulder for my uncle, Imrahil of Dol Amroth. I fear I may be some time in adapting to the lofty title my lord Aragorn saw fit to drop upon my shoulders unlooked for.”

They settled themselves in the chairs by the fire, Thorin having stopped briefly by his bed to retrieve several items wrapped in brown leather.

“My lord King mentioned that you wished to speak with me regarding a trip to the markets tomorrow, and has asked that I accompany you.”

“Yes, Aragorn thought that you would know where I might find interested parties to purchase these, and then where I might purchase items required by myself or my nephews.”

Thorin leaned forward, handing the man one of Fíli’s small throwing axes kept on the outside of his boot and three knives, one from each of the brothers and one of his own. Faramir had not flinched at his casual use of the King’s personal name, another point in the prince’s favor. The man examined all four weapons closely, paying particular attention to one of the knives and the tiny ax, handling them all expertly while checking balance, grip, and edge.

“I’ve not had the opportunity to handle dwarven made weaponry before, though I’ve heard of their legendary quality. I fear the only dwarf merchant to frequent our city since before I was born sells only toys, though of very clever design and the finest quality also. He is an expert at sharpening blades, however.”

Thorin smiled slightly, having the very information that he was looking for offered up. There were but two types of dwarves who would regularly visit a city of man alone so far from any of the clan strongholds- an exile with no allegiance to clan or lord, or one deliberately sent to gather information while appearing the innocent. With feigned casualness, the dwarf tested his luck.

“Oh? When was this toy-maker last here?”

Faramir glanced up from his close inspection of the ax, brow furrowed in thought.

“I believe he is here now. The last report of the market master stated that he had been trapped by the siege of the city, and then stayed to recoup his losses from when the markets were not open during the war. The report did not give his name, however.”

Good enough, he would see where the matter stood in the morning.

“I will check with Fíli and Kíli, then, for I’m certain some of their blades could use tending, and would undoubtedly prefer one of our people do so. Orcs have very thick skulls.”

That sally provoked a laugh from the man, “Aye, I fear I lost a number of my own weapons to that while fighting them at Osgiliath, and those were not as finally crafted as these.” 

Faramir held up Thorin’s knife, flipping it casually. Thorin lifted a brow, silently asking the man’s valuation.

“Almost any of our weapons merchants will pay top price for these, probably about thirty gold. The throwing ax will bring more, due to its unique nature, at least to us. Of course, they will then sell them easily at forty or even higher. The one who made these was very skilled.”

The dwarf smiled slightly, deciding to give the man the answer he’d been fishing for.

“The throwing ax and one of the knives are Fíli’s work. The smallest was made by a friend, Gimli’s cousin, Dwalin, and the one you are currently holding is my own work.”

A paltry example, as well, though Thorin did not tell the man that. He was skilled enough at the forge, but did not have the true mastery some of their race displayed, forging weapons that were fought over by kings. The prices quoted were far higher than what would be expected in the Blue Mountains or the markets of old at Dale, and well worth the price of hauling even the larger weapons here. Some of Durin’s Folk would surely be interested in such a venture now that the roads might be travelled in relative safety once more, an idea Thorin quietly filed away for later. Now, though, there was a familiar gleam in the eye of the Prince of Ithilien.

“I would give you thirty gold for the knife myself, and forty for the throwing ax, if you are willing.”

At that price, he may not even need to sell the others, dependent upon the prices of what he sought in the morning.

“That would certainly be acceptable. Fíli and Kíli can both show you some techniques for throwing the ax; it is a bit different than how you would handle a knife, though I would advise making sure you have an appropriate target sent. I doubt the Citadel staff would thank you for being required to patch the wall.”

Those two would have no qualms about creating their own target out of anything within eye sight that was for sure. Dis had frequently scolded them for such antics in the home, but the lesson never appeared to stick as well as the blades did in furniture. The prince laughed, standing to take his leave.

“I will keep that in mind, and will see you on the morrow at one hour past breakfast.”

True to his word, the prince appeared promptly the next morning, gold in hand as well as the names of several merchants recommended by some of his Ithilien Rangers. The gleam in his eye as he took possession of the two small weapons was definitely not feigned, bringing a slight smile even to the brooding Kíli. He had also brought with him a walking stick cut to Thorin’s size, a gift the dwarf accepted grudgingly as the only concession he planned to make to his injury and fever –born weakness. With several daggers in need of service and a list of items that the brothers desired, Thorin set off for his first true look at a capital of man.  
It was, as he’d noted when carried through it that first night, well built, and he could now see the design was heavily influenced by defense. Each ring of the city was walled, with stout gates set far from each other, and well-guarded, ensuring no enemy afoot would easily breach them. The day was overcast, cooler than he’d expected given how far south they were, and somewhat windy, making Thorin glad of the hooded cloak he wore, and reminded him to seek similar items for Fíli and Kíli. Next to him, Faramir glanced up at the gray sky in exasperation, absently rubbing a shoulder in the act of one pained by an old injury. He noted the dwarf king’s scrutiny and sighed.

“A Southern arrow caught me during the defense of Osgiliath, the head imbedding in the bone of the joint. It is well healed, but I was warned that it may prove troublesome with the changing of the weather. This spring and summer have been so mild I’ve not had to deal with it much. It seems hard to believe that tomorrow is Midsummer’s Eve. There is a great celebration being planned throughout the city for Midyear’s Day itself, though the King will tell no one why.” 

Faramir’s eyes glinted, telling Thorin that he, at least, had some suspicion as to what his king was about. Then the man smiled, face losing many of the cares that made him appear older then he was, one hand clapping the dwarf lightly on the shoulder.

“Come, I will favor my shoulder, you may limp, and we will see if two wounded warriors may win a better price from the tight-fisted merchants of Gondor.”

“If they are anything like those of the Blue Mountains, it will not be that easy,” Thorin rejoined, noting with relief that the tall young man was purposely monitoring his pace so as not to push the dwarf. “I understand that the position you hold is much like that of Chief Advisor in Erebor, the one person that the king may always rely upon for honest council.”

If the man was made uncomfortable by the topic, he did not show it.

“That is my understanding of the new duties, as well as acting as ruler when the king is away from the city, as the stewards have always done. It was not a position I had ever expected to fill.”

“Nor is your new king quite what your realm was expecting. He will need your support if Gondor is to prosper.”

Now Faramir stopped in the street, withdrawing to a slightly out of the way corner near some rubble, eyes narrowed.

“He has my support and he knows it.”

Yes, there was anger to the tone now, as well as suspicion. Faramir was making no attempt to mask it from the dwarf, either. Thorin simply watched silently until the young man began to fidget, the same stare that had long been used upon errant dwarflings and obnoxious courtiers with similar effect. It took several minutes longer than he had thought, but the man broke.

“Has he said something that would make you think otherwise?”

Now the doubt was there, just as Gandalf had warned. Thorin’s gaze hardened. The street of the city was perhaps not the best position for this discussion, but it was better than the crowded swirl of the market place. He partially sat upon the large piece of stone nearby, taking note of the wall above where it must have struck after being heaved by a great catapult. Dwarf siege weapons would have easily lofted it to twice that height.

“No, but you do him a great disservice by keeping the space between you. Tell me, did you contribute to the tales being told yesterday? It was a very informal setting, all speaking as equals.”

The man sat next to him, expression wary, mind attempting to ferret out the point Thorin was striving for. His answer was hesitant, but honest.

“No. It was not my place. Boromir travelled with that company, not I. Truthfully, I am not certain why I have been included in such gatherings except that they seek to honor my brother.”

No, this one would not see it, would he? Thorin chose his next words with care, falling back upon the bluntness characteristic of his race.

“To be a king is to be alone, Faramir, even with family near you, for they will often be blinded by loyalty. Aragorn must have someone who will pull him aside and tell him he is being the fool or stepping over the line, and that person must be a trusted friend. For me, it was two distant kinsmen, Balin and his brother Dwalin, who I grew up with. Dwalin was unfailingly loyal, always stood by me even when wrong, but his brother was older, and recognized when the occasion called for him to shout in my face, never hesitating even when he knew it would earn the sharp edge of my temper.” Thorin grimaced ruefully, “That was too often.”

Faramir’s sharp inhale of breath was the first indication that he’d finally understood his new king’s actions.

“Aragorn is looking to me to fulfill that role for him. I had not thought-“

“No, you had not. The companions he has now will not stay by his side, they all have lives elsewhere to return to, even Gandalf. You, however, will not leave, and I would imagine he feels closer to you for having been a comrade in arms of your brother. Do not let this present distance between you stand, or you will fail in your first duty to your king.”

With a gesture, Thorin invited the man to continue walking, but did not speak again, allowing the prince his thoughts. He had told Aragorn and Gandalf he would try, and he had; they would have to see what came of it.   
The markets were vast, throngs of men and women moving from shop to shop, fingering wares, haggling, or hurrying around those casually looking. This was the domain of all who sold wares within the city, some claiming permanent spots here while many travelled the lands. Most of the temporary structures were small, but serviceable, with three wooden sides and a roof to protect the wares from the weather, while the permanent shops set behind them were made of stone, cooler in the summer weather, but darker. Thorin soon had a headache as a result of moving in and out of the dark interiors, thankful it was not a sunny day, which would be even worse.   
It did not take long to find a booth featuring cloaks of a quality suitable for his sister-sons, nor was the pricing as bad as Thorin had feared. Only ten gold was asked for two hooded cloaks lined with white rabbit fur, a rich gold for Fíli and a royal blue for Kíli, a reasonable purchase. Other needed items, such as a new flint and steel or fletching supplies, were even cheaper, probably excess brought to outfit the soldiers of Gondor now unneeded. Food was a bit higher, but Thorin had no problem locating a few favorites to tempt Kili’s fever plagued appetite, knowing Fíli would eagerly accept what his brother did not eat. Finally, Faramir indicated one of the stone buildings toward the far edge of the market, an area he had mentioned was set aside for merchants whose services might prove a fire hazard in the temporary stalls. The grinding stone required to re-sharpen steel blades would certainly do so, though he could also smell the tell-tale stink of a forge nearby. Thorin hesitated, then turned to his companion.

“I would ask that you take the knives, ask for them to be sharpened and do not mention my name.”

The man paused, a bit taken aback by the odd request, but then silently accepted the offered items, moving to step into the shadowed interior. Thorin followed close behind, hood pulled up to shadow his face, thankful that the day meant such attire would not rouse suspicion. Once inside, he deliberately turned to a display of toys that placed him at an angle to the front counter, able to observe half turned or quickly show only his cloaked back to the merchant. It was a young dwarf, perhaps in his forties, who sat behind the counter, eyes wide upon noting the identity of his tall customer. Good, let that one be focused upon Faramir, as he’d intended.

“I would like to have these sharpened, young master. How much would such a service cost?”

“Ha- Half a gold for each, my lord. Please wait, my father stepped out back to smoke, he will be able to sharpen blades of this quality.”

The young one practically bolted to the back and out a door partially hidden by shelves. Faramir cocked an eyebrow at his companion, hand hovering over the four knives as if to scoop them from the counter and depart, but Thorin shook his head. The blades were identical, forged by Thorin and given to his sister-sons just days before embarking on the quest for the Lonely Mountain. The four daggers were some of his finest work, inset with the royal insignia of the House of Durin and a rune indicating the first letter of the owner’s name on the pommel. Thorin turned fully back to the shelf as the boy and his father re-entered, repositioning to glance at them while blocked from their sight by the sturdy frame of the man.

“Good morning, my son tells me you’ve dwarven blades that need sharpening. I can certainly do so, though I’d not expected to find such weapons in the-“

The prattle cut off abruptly, the dwarf no doubt receiving his first good look at the items. Unfortunately, Faramir had shifted on his feet, blocking the merchant from Thorin’s sight.

“Where did you get these? And do not think to lie, for I recognize them!”

The question was blurted angrily, just short of an accusation, Faramir rocking back at the unexpected heat.

“I…uh-“

Thorin interrupted, voice low, back once again turned, speaking in Khuzdul, concealing his surprise. There were not many who would know the blades as belonging to Fíli and Kíli, only that they were the weapons of one of Durin’s direct bloodline.

_“You know to whom they belong?”_

“Aye, I do,” The other dwarf answered fiercely in Westron, obviously wanting to ensure Faramir understood, “You’ve made a deadly mistake setting foot in my shop after disturbing the halls of the dead, no better than a bloody Ironfist!”

Had it been under any other circumstances, such an insult, especially spoken openly in front of one not of their people, would have resulted in bared steel. As it was, Thorin whirled, face still in shadows, hand upon his own dagger, when he stopped, startled by the identity of the merchant into blurting the first thing that crossed his mind.

“Hasn’t someone burned that damned hat yet?”

The merchant jerked back, eyes flaring in redoubled outrage.

“I think I’ve had about enough of you, stranger. Leave my shop or I’ll repaint the floors with your blood! And I’ll be keeping these!”

The toy-maker’s hand covered the daggers on the counter only to gasp as another suddenly joined them, blade almost touching his hand, point buried in the wood as the hilt quivered from the force of the throw. The rune of ‘T’ gleamed in the lantern light, inset in gold with the Durin Crest, identical to the daggers of the brothers. Thorin stayed back in the shadows, hood pulled up, switching back to Westron in his fury.

“Had such words been spoken to me by any save one of the Company, blood would be spilled this day!”

The other dwarf’s face turned white, gaze darting between the dagger and the stranger in the shadows as one shaky hand reached out to trace the golden rune, eyes filled with hastily swiped tears that washed away Thorin’s anger the moment he saw them. The dwarf king cursed his lack of control on his temper; silently acknowledging the outrage this one had the right to feel when presented with the weapons of dead comrades, presumably from their desecrated tomb. Thorin stepped forward then, one hand covering Bofur’s on the dagger hilt in mute apology as he swept his midnight blue hood back with the other. The toy-maker’s hand jerked at the contact, body dropping onto a stool his son had thankfully pushed in place just in time, then smiled ruefully, eyes locked on the counter.

“Ya never did care for my hat,” A deep breath and he at last lifted his gaze to meet Thorin’s, face showing a few more wrinkles, hair streaked with gray, but very much still the dwarf who’d once answered his exiled ruler’s call. “Kindly don’t be scarin’ an old dwarf like that again, Thorin. I’m not as young as I used to be, though you apparently are.”

The former member of the Company stiffened, eyes darting to the daggers upon the counter in sudden hope.

“The lads…?”

Thorin allowed a genuine smile to lighten his countenance at the barely whispered query. The irrepressibly cheerful ex-miner had quickly bonded with his sister-sons upon the quest, always ready to tease mercilessly or lend an understanding ear when being surrounded almost completely by those at least fifty years their elders grew wearisome. 

“They are up at the Citadel and would doubtless welcome a visit from an old friend. You are welcome to walk back up with me later if you can close your shop. I would warn you, however- Kíli is still restricted to his bed and his temper greatly suffers for it.”

The last was spoken in fond exasperation, for Kíli had been particularly difficult this morning when his continued exercises to aid his leg muscles to work once again proved fruitless. Bofur chuckled, recalling other instances of the youngest prince’s temper.

“I’ve no doubt, always movin’, that one. Takin’ most of his frustration out on his brother, too, most likely.”

Faramir cleared his throat, bringing the attention of all three dwarves to the man still in their midst.

“There are some errands I must take care of while in this section of the city, if you would care to spend time with your old comrade. I can return in an hour, if that would prove acceptable?”

Thorin inclined his head, thankful for the man’s tact as he left. He and Bofur could have easily kept their words private from Gondor’s Steward by using Khuzdul, but such an act could’ve been taken as extremely offensive. Better by far that they have privacy. A shaft of pain radiating out from the burn on his leg also reminded him that he had pushed his body far enough for now.

“Is there a place we may sit? I fear that not all my wounds were fully healed by my abrupt…”

“Resurrection? Jumpin’ out of the Halls of our Fathers?”

The light mockery in Bofur’s voice was strained, but there, and he waved the king back to a small table littered with tools and toy parts.

“How did you get here, if you don’t mind my asking? Far away from Erebor.”

Thorin snorted. There was little the toymaker wouldn’t dare ask, and he would certainly know if Thorin minded.

“Not even Gandalf has an answer for that one, but as no one can explain how we are alive in the first place, it has not engendered much concern. Fíli is of the opinion that there is some connection between Bilbo and us as we almost flattened his nephew falling out of thin air up on the mountain.”

“Hmm… That Ring of Bilbo’s, more like. Frodo had a hard shaft to sink with that one, carrying the cursed thing to Mordor. I was glad when I heard Gimli was able to help him part of the way.”

“Father?” The young dwarf hovered at his sire’s elbow, two large tankards to hand, “I thought you might want these.”

“Right considerate you are, too, lad, going to get them for us. Sit. This is Thorin Oakenshield himself. Thorin, my eldest, Kifir. His younger brother is at Erebor with his mother.”

Bofur grinned, the proud parent, as he took a healthy swig of the ale the dwarfling had brought, winking merrily at Thorin when the boy gaped as if he’d been introduced to Durin himself.

“Kifir?”

Thorin lightly questioned the nontraditional name, though he already had a suspicion as to its origin.

“Aye. His mother and I chose to honor the lads. Kifir even carries one of their throwing knives, found in the eye of an orc after the tombs had been sealed, though I couldn’t tell him which of the two carried it.”

“You do them great honor,” Thorin noted, touched by the gesture, then turned to the young dwarf, “May I see it?”

If the boy fumbled a bit unsheathing it, cursing his clumsiness in Khuzdul under his breath, his elders kindly pretended not to notice. Thorin did not even need to find the small maker’s mark at the base of the blade to know its history. He took a swallow of his own ale, flipping the knife with a flick of his wrist to extend the hilt back to its current owner.

“It was Kili’s, though forged by Fíli. You’ve taken good care of it. Keep it, young Kifir, and use it well.”

“Thank you, sir. Are you going to return to Erebor now? They would have to give the throne to you, wouldn’t they?”

Out of the mouths of the young. Bofur winced, but did not reprimand his son for the breathless question, probably wanting to hear the answer for himself.

“That is not yet decided, Kifir. There are a great many things to be considered, not the least of which is what is best for our people and if they would even wish my return.”

That silenced all within the small shop for a long moment, then the toy-maker quickly clapped his son on the back, pressing several coins into his palm.

“You run along and stay out of trouble for an hour, then meet us back here. We’ll go up to the Citadel.”

The dwarfling brightened at the bribery, snatched the coins and raced out the door before his parent could change his mind. Bofur, meanwhile, was contemplating his king with a narrowed gaze. Thorin merely raised an eyebrow, inviting the other to voice his thoughts.

“Those from the Blue Mountains would back you. None were all that pleased with the bunch from the Iron Hills sweeping in and claiming our home. Dain was not the most diplomatic about installin’ his own in key positions that many felt should have rightfully belonged to those in the Company. It almost came to blows then, had not Balin and Lady Dis worked out some agreement with his majesty. Now, though, the rumbles have been growing louder. Stronghelm has not married, and some accuse him of jeopardizing the prophecy of Durin’s return given at Dain’s coronation, noting that all Durin’s Folk are technically kin to Dain, if distantly. You would certainly be within your rights to demand that he give over in your favor. Aye, even if it came to steel!”

This was the very news that Thorin had feared the most.

“So, you would have me lead us against our own?” Thorin stared hard at the other, who refused to back down, eyes glistening in anger. Finally, he shook his head at the toy-maker, greatly saddened at the mere thought of such an action. “No, Durin’s Folk will not bare steel to drink the blood of kin, even if I must accept permanent exile myself. You have simply confirmed that I dare not announce my presence beyond a trusted few. Tell me of what you know of the other clans…”


	10. An Evening with Bofur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a trick is played and an evening passed with an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

10\. An Evening with Bofur

It was late afternoon by the time the three dwarves and the man made their way slowly back up the winding city paths to the great Citadel. Upon Faramir’s return to the small shop, the prince had insisted upon treating all three dwarves to a late meal at a nearby tavern, probing questions as to the state of mind of the merchants easily revealing the rationale behind the generous offer. Faramir proved well versed in the identities of those who regularly traded within the city, taking note of concerns Bofur had heard with an earnestness that boded well for his stewardship. The walk had been tiring for the dwarf king, but well worth the effort, though he was grateful when Kifir insisted upon carrying the purchases made that day.

As they approached the Citadel gates, Thorin frowned, for one of the guardsmen there was so short as to be a child of man still. Before he questioned it, however, he stopped two bare feet, drawing near enough to make out the features of the youngest cousin of Frodo Baggins.

“I had not realized that you had accepted one of the hobbits to service.”

Faramir laughed softly, “Pippin would not have it any other way. Boromir had saved him, so he felt it his duty to offer service as a replacement. Most of the men treated it as a joke at first, but Master Took saved my life, and then went on to kill a troll at the Black Gates, saving several men in the process, including the new captain of my personal guard, Beregond. His cousin, Merry, stabbed the Chief of the Nazgul, aiding the Lady Eowyn in killing that fell shade, and you know of what Frodo and Samwise accomplished. When my dreams stated that the Halfling would stand forth, I never entertained notions of such deeds.”

Thorin grunted, favoring Bofur with a sour look as the other started laughing in delight. There was no reason to rub in that lesson!

“I, too, vastly underestimated the value of a hobbit. They do not seem a people given to great deeds, and yet are continuously thrust into the center of such.”

“Aye, the lad came a long way from fainting at my description of a dragon!”

Bofur added as they approached the gates. Thorin could see Pippin’s eyes light at the comment, but the hobbit refrained from asking, instead demanding the password, which Faramir gave with a fond smile. They were about to pass through when Pippin held out a hand to stop them.

“Sir Meriadoc asked that these be passed to Lord Thorin when he next came through the gates.”

One small hand held out two pouches, the pungent odor of pipe weed instantly recognizable. A glance in inquiry and a small return nod informed Thorin that the smaller pouch had been added to the offering by Pippin himself. A genuine smile lit the features of the dwarf lord.

“You must pass him my thanks indeed, then, for this is a generous gift. None at the markets seemed aware of what I desired when I inquired.”

The hobbit wrinkled his nose, forgetting the stern demeanor he had been rigidly keeping to until then.

“No, they seem to believe it’s only good for getting rid of vermin. A terrible waste; though the quality is definitely nowhere near that of Old Toby or Longbottom leaf, it’s acceptable enough. I’m afraid the smaller pouch only has some of that in it, sorry. Merry sent you Shire leaf, though!” 

Abruptly aware of Faramir’s amused raised eyebrow, the young guard flushed, straightening and trying to resume his solemn duty, a wave of the hand passing them through the gate. Thorin could not help laughing at that, while Bofur just shook his head.

“Young Pippin’s not changed all that much, I see.” At Thorin’s raised eyebrow, the toymaker added, “I passed through the Shire quite regularly on the western trade routes for a while. Always made a point of stopping at Bag End to see Bilbo and Frodo, so I often ran into that young rascal as well. He’s a Took through and through, finally made clear some of Bilbo’s early statements on the quest.”

The king nodded silently, hand softly knocking upon the door to the chambers he shared with his nephews. Fíli opened it, mouth dropping open in surprise at the sight of the toymaker, cheerful grin firmly in place to cover the tears that pricked Bofur’s eyes. The young prince did not manage a word before being enveloped in the older dwarf’s arms, though Thorin could tell Bofur was being mindful of the other’s injuries.

“Fíli? Who’s there?”

Thorin could hear the slightly irritated demand from his younger nephew, but was unable to move past the two blocking the door. Bofur abruptly pulled back with one heartier slap to Fíli’s back, making the blond wince slightly.

“Just an old friend wanting to say hello, lad!”

The statement was forced, Bofur’s control clearly at the edge as he approached the bed where Kíli lay dressed atop the blankets, several cards clenched in his hand from the game their arrival had interrupted. The younger prince gasped, a wide, genuine grin lighting his features.

“Bofur?!”

Thorin ignored the greetings as three voices all tried to spill over one another, motioning Kifir to leave the parcels upon his own newly remade bed. The king was much more interested in retrieving his pipe, the scent of the leaves too enticing to pass, though he’d no doubt the healers would disapprove. Easing to one of the chairs by the brothers’ beds, he opened the smaller pouch, unwilling to waste the better quality leaf should he be forced to immediately put the thing out. The leaf was smaller than what he was used to, with a slight grit to the texture, black specks of whatever Gondorians used to preserve it still adhering to the leaves. Kifir quickly appeared at his side with a small candle from the fire, eagerness to be of help to this legendary dwarf strongly reminiscent of a young Kíli. One breath in, however, had the king exploding in coughing, eyes stinging, and drawing the attention of the others to him.

“Thorin!”

Bofur’s hands steadied him as he staggered slightly on his injured leg, having stood up when the coughing started.

“I’ll get Coryn!”

Eyes watering, Thorin saw Fíli begin to scramble for the door and waved at him.

“No!” A deep breath without the pipe in his mouth delivered a faint familiar scent, the king returning to his chair with a disgruntled huff. “No need, I am fine. It seems someone laced this pipe weed with a bit of pepper.”  
As he knew it would, that engendered astonished laughter, Kíli insisting upon taking a cautious whiff, though there was a bit too much casualness to the reactions of his nephews to Thorin’s mind. Especially given the discussion he’d woken to yesterday!


	11. The Ring of Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which guilt is laid bare and new understandings reached.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

11\. The Ring of Power

Late in the morning of the next day, Thorin stirred restlessly in the chair before the fire once more, glancing broodingly at the pushed together beds where two heads finally lay still. The evening with Bofur and Kifir had been a relaxing one, full of stories and jokes, but by the end, Thorin had been able to read the growing turmoil in Kili’s eyes, for yet another block to recovery had been discovered. As the tales had been told, especially of the quest for Erebor, Kíli would occasionally go still, face blank as he sought in vain to place the events within his memory. Some had been as simple as who was seated next to him at Bilbo’s hobbit hole, or the name of his first pony as a child, while others had been things that it did not seem possible he could have forgotten, such as why they had not grown to adulthood within Erebor. Aragorn, when he stopped in for the nightly check he insisted upon, had questioned the young dwarf intently, and then sat back with a sigh.

“It is yet another effect of the shock-sleep and breathing being cut off. Some memories may return with prompting, usually a familiar sight, sound, or smell. I wish I were able to tell you differently, Kíli, but time is all that may resolve these issues.”

It was not an encouraging note on which to end the night, even after Bofur’s attempt to lighten the mood by playing a tune apparently partially created by the brothers. Aragorn had stayed long enough to hear the song, challenging them to replay it for the hobbits, especially Frodo, who’d no doubt heard the tale of flying dishes several times. Finally, though, none could put off needed rest, despite the uneasy feel it now brought to all three of them. It had been Thorin who discovered the night before, to his chagrin, that he could not tolerate settling in a room with no light, so he now ensured the fire had enough fuel to not go out. Unfortunately, the night that followed was a sorely trying one.

Fíli had been the first to start awake with a nightmare, gasping until his hand contacted the chest of his brother in the dark, which startled Kíli awake with a cry, memories of goblin hands grasping and pulling merging with reality. It had taken the elder brother several minutes to convince the younger of what was real and what only memory. Quiet talk between the two had in turn, roused a very grumpy uncle, who insisted upon silence. Still, once aware, Thorin was unable to return to his own rest until the slow sounds indicated sleep had claimed the two across the room. This cycle of one brother waking the other with disturbing dreams repeated twice more that Thorin was aware of; the dragging energy of the younger dwarves in the morning’s light, however, indicated it had probably been more than that. 

Thorin had finally spoken quietly with Donel as dawn touched the city, and he had mixed a mild sleeping draught that was slipped into the morning tea of the brothers. Both had fought the sleep, though they clearly needed it, until at last all was quiet in the room, except the dwarf king himself. The princes were not the only ones to suffer from dreams last night, but his had not been the nightmare of battle, but rather odder still. In his mind, he’d walked stone halls, greeting dwarves he knew he’d never met as old friends, and climbed a stair that seemed to have no end. He’d reached the top, finally, and was about to open the stone door, to see what lay beyond, when his nephews’ voices had intruded, pulling him into the waking world once more. Now, the king sat staring into the firelight, mind whirling, for there was only one place upon Middle Earth that he knew of that matched where he’d seemed to walk, and yet… Jerking his thoughts from such wild speculations, he turned to check upon the two sleepers behind him, only to be plagued by doubts and dark memories of that bloody day before the gates of the mountain, exacerbated by the sight of the two whom he’d failed in the worst way. 

Unable, finally, to stand the confines of the room any longer, he summoned one of the twins to keep watch over the princes and wandered the halls of the Citadel until he found his way outside, bright sunlight and a breeze welcoming him. Unfortunately, the fair morning did nothing to aid his mood, not even the sweet scent of the small white tree blooming in the court yard bringing comfort this day. After several circuits of the court, and a raised eyebrow from one of the amused guard before the tree, Thorin forced himself to settle upon a small white stone bench near the farthest point of the cliff, a vantage point that allowed him to gaze down upon the city gates themselves should he choose. 

The delegation from Erebor was due to arrive this afternoon, and another large group from Rivendell and Lothlorien just behind them. The prospect of numerous elves in the Citadel did nothing to sweeten his disposition, and he found himself once more retracing the steps of the company in his mind, analyzing his every thought and decision. He tried to tell himself, to convince himself, over and over that he sought Erebor only for the future that it would ensure for his people, and yet… How much had the gold pulled at his thoughts? Had he used the toil of the refugees, the fear for the safety of their children, as an excuse, or had he truly believed in his heart that the path trodden was the best? If offered the leadership of his people once more, was he worthy of that trust? Slowly, he pulled the Arkenstone from its resting place inside his tunic, watching as the great gem caught the beams of the sun, painting colors across the white stone of the court.

“It’s as beautiful as Bilbo described it.”

The soft comment brought his attention up to find his old companion’s nephew standing a few feet away, colors playing across his feet.

“I think sometimes I need such things to remind me of what I fought so hard for, there in Mordor. Some days the memories come too dark for even Sam to lighten.”

The words echoed his own thoughts so uncannily that he was momentarily caught by surprise, then waved a hand at the bench beside him.

“Would you sit, Master Baggins?”

Frodo hesitated, then smiled, though Thorin had noted when he met this one that the edge of sadness never seemed to leave him. The hobbit accepted the offered stone, turning it over in his hands to examine every angle.

“It does not seem possible that a stone could heal what the greatest of the elves could not, yet we both sit here. Odd, Bilbo once told me that it was all he could do not to cast the Arkenstone from him; he felt such revulsion for the thing. He swore it was not natural, yet I feel only peace. It is solid, old, enduring, like the mountain that it came from.”

Interesting, that this one could hear the stone so clearly, for hobbits’ affinity seemed to be for the earth and what it grew, not the hard stones and metals of the dwarves. Frodo paused, considering the gem for a long moment, brow furrowed as if listening intently to a voice in the distance. Eyes unfocused, the hobbit echoed what he heard. 

“You must return to the mountain, take up the crown that is yours by blood and birth.”

Thorin reached out, placing a hand over the hobbit’s, meaning to take back the stone, and almost reeled from the contact. Colors swirled around him, pulling him in, urging a return to the mountain with a compulsion it took all his will to pull away from, hand knocking the gem from Frodo’s loose grasp, sending it skittering across the marble court.

“No! I cannot, I will not!”

He swallowed convulsively; head turned away from the hobbit to hide the pain brought flaring to life in his soul for his heart wanted to answer that call. A tentative hand rested upon his shoulder.

“Why do you hesitate to return? Bilbo once told me that you would have been one of the kings whose deeds are the basis of myth and legend, song and tale.”

That earned a bitter bark of laughter from the dwarf.

“He may have meant that as a curse, for seldom do such have an easy life, as you know.”

Thorin almost shot to his feet, storming away from this gentle soul, yet the debt owed to this one’s family, and the wisdom and pain shining in the eyes, so like those of Balin, pinned him to his seat. Of anyone, Frodo Baggins might best understand the darkness that burdened his thoughts.

“Would I truly rule well? Dare I chance it, one who has already been taken by the dragon sickness to the point where I was willing to sacrifice all, even my nephews, to keep a few coins? I will not betray my people again. I almost killed Bilbo, at one point.”

He finally turned to look at the hobbit once again, expecting agreement, perhaps condemnation for how he’d hurt Bilbo, but not the quiet compassion that was there.

“Would you, faced with the same situation, with another taking the Arkenstone, demanding gold, change your actions?” Frodo swept a hand toward where the gem lay on the court, “You told Bilbo that you regretted all of it, at the end, that you could not understand what had come over you.”

Thorin didn’t even need to think deeply on that one, feeling the truth of his words in his very soul.

“I would change them. I look back and I see only madness, a being foreign to me ranting and raving.”

The hobbit nodded, as if this was what he had expected to hear. One hand, only four fingers yet upon it, rested on Thorin’s in his lap, a haunting sadness now taking over the hobbit’s continence.  
“I do not believe it was you, Thorin Oakenshield. I believe it was the Ring.”

The dwarf king frowned at that, considering the idea doubtfully.

“What do you mean?”

Frodo took a deep breath, collecting himself.

“As I travelled with the Fellowship, I could tell the Ring was calling out to them, tempting, probing for weakness, even as close to the Shire as Bree. I would look up, only to see a stranger in the eyes of one of my companions, a madness that made them start for me, speak words that were not their own, always to fulfill the will of the Ring’s true master. I carried the Ring when it was actively trying to return to Sauron, but so did Bilbo. Gandalf told us at the Council of Elrond that the Ring abandoned Gollum in an attempt to be picked up by a goblin and carried to Dol Guldur, where its master’s power was growing, except Bilbo found it instead. I think that is what led the spiders to attack your party, spurred on the hatred of Thranduil, and even woke Smaug, for I cannot imagine having the dwarves retake Erebor was in the interests of Sauron. When all that failed, would it not seek out any it could work upon? And what better target could it find then you, who had the power to sow dissension among the races meeting there? The Ring was so powerful even the wise were tempted by its call, even I-“

The hobbit stopped speaking, fingers convulsively rubbing at the stump of the missing digit, skin already raw and swollen. Gently, Thorin reached out, work and weapons callused hands stilling those of the Ringbearer.

“The wound will not heal if you worry it so. Why do you seek to prolong the pain?”

It was Frodo’s turn to squirm uncomfortably at a question, silent. Thorin simply waited, idly acknowledging the salute of a passing guardsman. When the soldier noted his companion, however, he stopped, offering a low bow to the hobbit before continuing on, an action Thorin felt the other flinch at. The reaction strongly reminded him of another Baggins trying to turn down the gift of a mithril shirt, claiming he’d done nothing worthy of such reward.

“It is the way men show honor to one who is worthy of it. He meant no harm.”

Frodo swallowed hard at his words, gaze darting around the court, hands trying once more to rub the stub but held fast by Thorin’s larger ones. There was some guilt riding heavily on this one, the king decided, something to do with the Ring.

“You do not think yourself worthy of such honor?”

He prodded gently, finally provoking a flush and fast words.

“No! They don’t- I did not- Thorin, I could not destroy the Ring, there, at the last. Gollum bit it from my hand after I claimed it for myself! I tried to doom all of Middle Earth, how is that worthy of praise?”

Thorin would have laughed at the pair of them, had he not feared it would be taken ill by his companion. Gandalf would call them a proper duo of fools!

“Did you not just tell me of the power of the thing even outside of the lands of its creation? Would you not allow yourself the same mortal weakness that you refused to condemn me for? The strength of will needed to bring that dark thing to the edge of its destruction is beyond my comprehension already; I do not think any upon Middle Earth could have cast it in. Frodo, I once held one of the Seven in my hand, felt its power as my grandfather told me of its history, a mere trinket compared to the power you defied across half of Middle Earth!”

“He speaks truly, mellon nin, for Thrór held the greatest of the Seven Rings of the Dwarf Lords.”

Both looked up into the calm visage of Lord Elrond, the elf lord extending the Arkenstone back to Thorin. With deep respect, the elf bowed to both of them.

“Greetings to you both on this Midyear’s Eve. Thorin Oakenshield, I believe you should seek your kinsmen, for there has been yet more fell news for Durin’s Folk. Two days ago, Thorin Stronghelm succumbed to wound fever despite all that his healers could do.”


	12. The Prophecy of Durin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a very old power shows itself and a possible new future arises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

The Prophecy of Durin

Thorin felt shock wash through him at the words, hands shaking slightly with the weight of the King’s Jewel.

“Where are they?”

Elrond’s eyebrows pinched together in the look Kíli had once compared to seeing someone sucking on apple bitters.

“I do not know, but I do not believe you will need aid finding them.”

Thorin didn’t bother to try wrenching a straight answer from the elf, hurrying quickly across the courtyard and entering the dim Citadel, peering about for a servant to ask. Before he could locate one, however, deep voiced curses in Khuzdul rang out clearly down the corridor on Thorin’s right, stone walls echoing Dwalin’s words as well as one of the resonating chambers under the mountain. Gimli rounded a corner in a huff, face almost as red as his beard.

“Thorin! I-“

The dwarf king cut his kinsman off.

“I can hear.” Thorin told the dwarf warrior drily. “Is it only Dis, Dwalin, and Glóin?”

“No. Oain of the Iron Hills is with them.”

Thorin bit back some bitter words of his own at that. The younger of Dain’s two sister-sons, Oain and his older brother, Fain, were cousins to Thorin Stronghelm, and neither had been welcomed by the exiles of Erebor. Barely more than children when he had last seen them at the meeting in Ered Luin, the brothers were vain, spoiled, and given to acts of petty cruelty. It was their father’s influence, no doubt, for Dain’s sister had risked scandal within Durin’s Folk by consenting to marry a Blacklock of the Far East, the one dwarven clan that had consistently allied itself with Sauron. Thorin’s thoughts must have been easily read upon his face because Gimli snorted, rolling his eyes.

“Aye, I’m surprised he arrived here in one piece as well. Maybe he rode with the elves!”

The king shook his head at the other, not willing to be diverted.

“Gimli, please ensure your cousins are both awake and dressed, we’d best move this discussion elsewhere before the entire Citadel hears. See if you can arrange some trustworthy guards for the end of the corridor, as well. Our room is the only one currently occupied near there.”

The other dwarf left without a word, leaving his king standing in the dim hallway of the Citadel, who grimaced and followed the sound down the hall to one of the small meeting rooms, then stopped just outside the door, listening. Whatever had been said, it clearly had his sister furious.

_“-do not care! I have given my parents, my brothers, even two of my children to that mountain, I will not sacrifice more!”_

_“There is no other choice, Dis! Thorin died without naming an heir and we need someone other than that half-wit in the Iron Hills!”_

It was the deep voice of Dwalin, matching fury with fury, one of the few dwarves who would willingly face the Durin temper without flinching.

_“My brother is not-“_

A strange voice protested, outraged. That could only be Oain.

“Shut up, Oain!”

Several voices chorused, making the listening king smile grimly. Glóin must have added something too soft to be caught through the door, because the next statement was again from Oain.

_“You go too far, Lord Glóin! I am-“_

“A dwarf who is about to be a foot shorter if he doesn’t shut up!”

That was Dwalin, who’d long detested Dain’s nephews, never bothering to hide that fact, either.

“I need not stand here and tolerate this!”

_“I agree, Oain. You may leave us to our discussions, as this concerns Erebor, not the Iron Hills.”_

Dis’ voice was syrupy sweet, marking her at her most dangerous.

_“Fain is Stronghelm’s closest living relative, and therefore his heir, not just to the Iron Hills but to the throne of Erebor!”_

The mere thought of one of those two idiots upon the throne of Erebor made Thorin’s blood boil.

_“No one with the tainted blood of a Blacklock will rule Erebor while I draw breath!”_

Glóin roared, no doubt brandishing one of his axes to emphasize his point. Thorin took a deep, calming breath, forcing himself to reign in his temper, then stepped to the open door, Arkenstone still held in his hand, forgotten.

_“The prophecy clearly states-“_

“Prophecy may be wrong.” Thorin fixed his burning gaze on the puffed up peacock from the Iron Hills even as the room descended into shocked silence, speaking in Westron. “Or it may say what those who interpret it wish it to say.”  


The king met the shocked eyes of his kin, but before any could say a word, a flash of light that swept the room startled them all. Once more, Thorin found himself observing his own funeral through the mists, though this time he felt the presence of the others at his shoulder. Below, Legolas paid tribute to Kíli, an act that sent a low moan from the throat of Dis, the Arkenstone and Orcrist returned, then the chanting began. 

Suddenly, the words altered, leading a gasp to ripple through the dwarves in attendance. Power seemed to fill the chamber, deep and frightening, and blue lightning danced upon the stone walls.

_“Be watchful, Durin’s Folk, for he shall soon stand forth, kin to one newly crowned, Durin the Deathless, the seventh and last. The Heart of the Mountain shall return him, seven stars upon his palm, in the year that two towers fall and one white tree be born anew. In the days when the Shadow flees shall the ancient kingdoms be reclaimed, the glory of old renewed. Take heed, Durin’s Folk, and recall the fullness of these words only when he stands among you, the Stone of Kings in hand.”_

Another flash and the room of stone was once more that of the Citadel and not the dark root of the mountain, bodies around him staggering as they fought to find balance once more. A burning took Thorin’s hand and he cried out, dropping the Arkenstone to the floor, where it flashed with an internal fire. Dazed, the exiled king stared at his palm until another grabbed it, trembling finger tracing the seven small stars stretching in a crescent just below the base of his fingers, a familiar crown below, focus tunneling to only to those marks as he swayed.

Then someone was pressing down on his shoulder urging him to sit, a stool abruptly underneath legs that would no longer support him. Cool water was pressed to his lips, a cloth wiping at his hand, easing the sting, finally forcing the room to jolt into focus once more. His kin were clustered around him, Dis with his hand in hers, Glóin pressing more water upon him, and Dwalin, his old friend, just watching him with one hand upon his shoulder, tears running unheeded down the fierce cheeks. How long they simply stood, they could never afterwards tell, but the stunned silence was broken at last by Gimli clomping into the room.

“What did I miss?”

Glóin just groaned, hand coming up to cover his eyes at his son’s remark, while the others (with the notable exception of a glaring Oain) laughed, though it was tinged with a hysterical edge. The resulting confusion took some time to sort out, as Thorin found himself obliged to give a truncated account of his arrival, though he did not mention Fíli and Kíli. Finally, he was able to turn to Gimli.

“Are they presentable?”

There was a light teasing in his voice, more to keep hold of his own sanity than to actually suggest his sister-sons would look less than their best when about to greet their mother for the first time in seventy-seven years. Thorin could not yet truly believe the seven dots and crown now on his palm and their meaning, for it seemed incomprehensible to him that he could be any other but Thorin, son of Thrain. Absently, he began to rub at this latest burn, only to have his hand swatted by Dis, who had bustled off to find burn ointment, muttered darkly to herself all the while. Gimli grinned, a gleam of satisfaction in his eye.

“Aye, I also arranged for Merry and Pippin to stand guard at either end of the hall.”

“Those two young hobbits I met in Rivendell?” Glóin asked his son sharply, “How do you expect those two to deter men or elves eager to hear our deliberations?”

Thorin simply raised an amused eyebrow at his old friend over his sister’s shoulder.

“You, of all of us, Glóin, should know better than to underestimate any kin of Bilbo Baggins. I would not seek to defy one who bested a troll, nor one brave enough to stab the Witch-King of Angmar, hobbit or no.”

His cousin blanched at that, especially when his son calmly nodded verification. Thorin, however, had a more personal concern, pulling his now wrapped palm from his sister and tilting her head until their foreheads touched. Softly, no more than a whisper that only she would catch, he told her the news closest to both their hearts.

“I did not come alone, sister. Fíli and Kíli live. They will need the support of us both if they are to fully heal and live the lives that they were denied. Will you forgive my folly that took them from you?”

Truthfully, Thorin knew that only the sudden intervention of the Arkenstone and the shocking revelation of the full prophecy had prevented him from being laid flat by Dis’ fist before this. When the two of them truly quarreled, it shook even stolid Dwalin to the core, for the fury unleashed was powerful enough to bring down a mountain and very slow to dissipate. When Thorin had asked the brothers to join the quest, Dis had warned him to bring them back in one piece or not come back himself, for she’d surely take him apart piece by piece. Unlike most who uttered such threats, his little sister had meant every word. 

She looked deep into the blue eyes that matched her own, then crumpled against him, weeping out seventy-seven years of pain. This was the reaction he’d hoped to contain by not taking the delegation immediately to the young dwarf princes, for Fíli and Kíli had enough emotional traumas to work through without piling this atop the load. No, this was his responsibility, and he was done with running away. Around them, the others had stilled once more, sensing that there was more tidings they’d yet to hear. Dimly, Thorin heard Gimli explaining, grateful for the solid support of the young one, then Dis was pulling back, wiping her face with the cloth she’d been using on his burned hand. She met his gaze, understanding there, the calm, strong mask they’d both been taught from birth slipping back into place.

“Let us see my sons, and discuss the start of a new age for our people, for Durin has returned at last.”

With a smile, he took her hand in his unburned one, leading the way through the halls, though they were abruptly stopped by the sight of Aragorn standing with Pippin and Merry at the entrance to the royal dwarves’ room. He bowed a greeting to the delegation, but it was clear that he was not acting in his role of king, but of healer, for he immediately offered apologizes and waved Dis and Thorin to the side. There, Aragorn quietly told the quivering mother the extent of the injuries suffered by her sons and brother, her face slowly whitening at the toll. By the time the man excused himself, the dwarf king could feel the tension radiating off his sister’s body and he once again touched her forehead to his own.

“Remember that they heal, little sister.”

It was disconcerting to see the silver of her once black hair, the lines worn into her face that were not there when they’d left her only six months ago, or so it seemed to Thorin. Dis nodded, but would not look at him, a slight shake running through the hand that he still held. Unable to think of anything else he could say or do, he looked to his other kin, Dwalin giving him a nod of reassurance that they would not enter the room until he called, allowing the royal family the privacy needed for this reunion. Before he could open the door, however, the knob pulled from his hand and Fíli slipped out. Dis immediately enfolded her eldest in a hug, body shaking with tears that Fíli accepted calmly, though he grimaced at the strength of his mother’s grip upon healing bruises. She must have felt it, for she abruptly backed off one step, hand still gripping his good arm.

“Why are you out here instead of in with your brother?”

Thorin’s question was soft, but sharp, for he knew what it cost his sister-son to stand there quietly without the younger dwarf in sight. Fíli sighed.

“Kili’s running a fever again and just dozed off. I’d thought to join you elsewhere so that we did not disturb him.”

Glóin and Dwalin had moved close, each one silently gripping Fíli’s hand in welcome even as his old trainer shook his bald head.

“Not a good idea, laddie. Too much has happened that you both know nothing off, and should hear.” Suddenly Dwalin turned, surveying the corridor with a frown. “Where’s that dratted little weasel, Oain?”

The large dwarf hadn’t bothered to keep his voice low as he asked the question, Pippin turning from his post at the anger in the tone.

“He left while Thorin and his sister were speaking to Aragorn. Shouldn’t he have?”

The looks exchanged by Glóin and Dwalin did not bode well, for their visages went grim, Dwalin’s fist tightening as if expecting to fight.

“I’ll go find the rat.”

At Thorin’s slightly confused nod, the warrior was off at a rolling run, a servant at the junction of the corridors hastily flattening herself against the wall lest she be bowled over. Glóin and Gimli, meanwhile, were both swearing under their breath, hands straying to the hilts of weapons. Sighing, Thorin turned back to his elder nephew.

“We had best move this inside, and wake Kíli. Stronghelm is dead, and the circumstances have changed in a way I am not yet sure I believe.”

They all entered the room, Fíli and Dis moving as one to the bed where the youngest prince lay asleep atop the sheets, a light blanket thrown over him. He woke at his mother’s touch, accepting her hug with a fierce one of his own as his brother reclaimed his usual spot seated shoulder to shoulder with his sibling. Thorin placed the Arkenstone at the end of the bed, leery of what the stone might do, and therefore was not surprised at the renewed inner glow cast upon the two seated there. 

The outline of a mountain wavered on the wall behind them as lights coalesced to form the shapes of twin crowns upon golden and dark heads, the two looking around in bewilderment at the sharp stares suddenly directed at them. Dis paled, pulling back slightly as she bit off a sob, and then the mask of the princess of Erebor dropped into place, leading Thorin to frown. Kíli flinched as if slapped, shoulder bumping into the reassuring sturdy frame of his brother.

“What-?”

Thorin exhaled noisily, casting an exasperated glance at the lump of crystal merrily casting colors around the room.

“It seems that the Arkenstone is more than was ever suspected. It burned seven stars and a crown into my hand just now, and-“

Both princes’ eyes went wide, exclaiming in one voice, “The prophecy of Durin! We thought it was a dream!”

“Apparently not.” Gimli grouched, eyeing his cousins. “Though I don’t see what needs to be discussed. The throne of Erebor is Thorin’s, with the pair of you obviously next in line. We just need to attend Aragorn’s wedding tomorrow and then go home.”

Such a bland statement made it sound so simple, yet Thorin knew what seemed logical would rarely withstand the first encounter with politics. To make his point, Dwalin stomped into the room, his axes, Grasper and Keeper, held in clenched fists, jaw grinding and eyes blazing with fire.

“He’s gone, out of the city completely! Who knows what schemes he and that mongrel brother of his will begin! We could return to find Erebor held against us!”

“Over my dead body!” Dis snapped, animation returning to her features, “I already sent a return message by raven over all three of our names appointing a trio of regents we can trust implicitly before we ever entered this city.”

“And when were you going to inform us of this? You are not the only one of the line of kings here, Dis!”

Glóin glowered, but backed down at a sharp gesture from Thorin.

“It does not matter. Who did you appoint, Dis? For we seven must decide what news of all this is passed to them before our return, and I must know where the current threats lie.”

“My- Vili, with Nori, and Nalin.”

The first two names were no surprise, Vili had long served as a counselor for Thorin in place of his lost brother, and none was better at ferreting out intrigue than Nori; that is, if he himself were not already hip deep in it. Vili would no doubt enlist Dori, the eldest brother, to keep Nori’s larcenous tendencies in check. Nalin, however, was unexpected, for Thorin had only met Dwalin’s young son once, the warrior allowing the boy’s mother to raise him as she saw fit. Dwalin, however, nodded, as if the choice was a natural one, then offered his newly returned king an explanation.

“Nalin is much more like Balin than me; he’s been acting as one of Dain’s counselors for about ten years now, and has the bloodline that the other two lack. The mountain will be safe enough with those three. They should be informed of your return, Thorin, but I’d not spread it further than that until I can stand there with Grasper and Keeper to answer any who may object.”

Thorin nodded agreement, ignoring the implied threat of bloodshed, for he was certain that Dwalin would never act without his monarch’s word. Tension lifted a bit as the others settled, topics turning quickly from the politics they could do nothing about to more mundane details of friends and work, kin long sundered reconnecting into the night, though all knew that the morning would bring new complications.


	13. Heartaches and Hard Roads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fili gets kicked and both brothers get a bit wet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

13\. Heartaches and Hard Roads

Two weeks later, Thorin reigned in his grey pony, Mithril, at the edge of a stream, waving the others forward to water their mounts as he considered the small company he now led toward home. To his right, Dwalin and Glóin began to fill water skins silently, glaring at one another, for they’d been at odds for several days over the best route home. The bitter argument had actually begun as a rouse to throw off those who might have been listening in, hoping for intelligence to sell to one of the many who would surely rue the return of Thorin Oakenshield to the throne of Erebor, for the news had not been kept quiet at all.

It had been the Arkenstone itself that had once again upset their plans, for apparently at the same instant that Thorin’s hand had been burned, the entire Lonely Mountain had quaked as if shaken by a massive stone giant. Fearful for the ancient kingdom they had worked so diligently to restore, the dwarves of Erebor had followed the indicators plain to them in the rock to the source of the disturbance- the tombs of the royal family, deep within the heart of the mountain. There, it was discovered that a great force had split the covers of the tombs of Fíli, Kíli, and Thorin in two, the insides standing empty save for the broken remains of Kili’s dwarven bow.  
Moreover, the inscriptions on all three slabs had been wiped clean, as if made only of wet paint, Thorin’s replaced with the seven stars, crown, and anvil of Durin. Word of the astonishing events swept through the mountain and down to the city of Dale, all ceaselessly debating what it could mean. To still the growing panic, the three regents had been forced to spread word in turn of the return of Thorin Oakenshield to life in distant Gondor, gossip that doubtless found its way to less friendly ears.

When word of these latest occurrences had reached Minas Tirith, however, immediately setting out for Erebor, as might have been wise, had been impossible, for Kíli once more hovered upon the edge of death. The fever had returned late the night of the arrival of the delegation from Erebor, sending the youngest prince into a delirium-born nightmare that woke the other two within the room. The healers had been immediately summoned, including the Lord Elrond in place of his about to be married foster son, but they had been able to do little with herbal treatments. 

Finally, Elrond had sent men up the mountain to retrieve snow in a desperate attempt to lower a fever that was already beyond the point where it would kill a man or elf. This had barely been keeping Kíli alive as Aragorn arrived, hoping that the healing hands of the king would make the difference once again. The man had been ceaseless in his care, finally forced to leave just before dawn to prepare for a wedding set to begin only a few hours hence. He had assured Thorin, however, that Gimli and Glóin would serve well as the representatives of Erebor, not expecting the dwarf king or his elder heir leave the young prince’s side. 

Especially as Dis would not set foot into the room, for facing the death yet again of her youngest child had been the final blow to the cracks in her soul. As Kili’s fever rose to dangerous levels, she had fled the room to be sick outside the door, trembling and panicked a hint of madness showing in her eyes when Thorin followed asking her to return. Instead, she had left with a tearful shake of the head, barely making it to her assigned quarters before collapsing and refusing to leave, even when told that Kíli called ceaselessly for her in his dark dreams. Such actions neared driving Thorin himself to the edge, for well did he remember the madness that had claimed his father in the midst of battle. Fortunately, Dwalin took over ensuring that she ate, finally bringing her out of her room several days later, silent and sad, but with chin held high, Dis hidden once more behind the façade of the Princess of Erebor.

It had taken three days for the fever to abate enough for Kíli to once again be coherent of his surroundings, but some part of the young dwarf’s mind had noted his mother’s absence, for he did not ask for her now. His strength had been slow to return, sleep restless and plagued by an intermittent low temperature that persisted despite the healers. More worrisome, however, was the withdrawal from them, day by day communicating less, even using Iglishmêk.

Eight days later, they could wait no longer, Dwalin darkly pointing out that the easiest method of dealing with a king who would not remain conveniently dead was simply to kill him again, even setting it up to look as if the natural hazards of the journey had done so for them, and the more delay in setting out, the more time there was for such traps to be laid. 

One way to circumvent this problem was the choice of a less than desirable route, taking the road from the White City east to the former domain of Sauron until reaching the Mountains of Shadow, then north to trace the route taken so recently by the Captains of the West in their desperate assault upon the Black Gate. Once they reached that bleak battle plain, their path would carry them northwest, along the Anduin, until reaching the southern edge of Mirkwood near Dol Guldur. 

Their path from there was as yet undecided, and the topic of the debate between his two companions of old. Shouting erupted from the stream where the two combatants stood, drawing a grimace from Bofur, who stood upon the bank waiting for the filled containers. The toymaker and his son had not known what they were letting themselves in for when they asked to join Thorin’s small band!

“No, you fool! Why would we cross the Misty Mountains at the Redhorn Gate only to recross them above Rivendell? Do you truly wish to sample the hospitality of Goblintown a second time?”

“And your idea is so much better, you white bearded idiot? Walking within the shadow of the mountains straight north past the very gates of Moria?!”

“White bearded idiot! Why you tattooed-“

Thorin turned with a sigh; mentally tallying the rest of the company after offering the long suffering Bofur a roll of the eyes for his forced position next to the two. The three young guards were ignoring the whole business, probably from long familiarity with Dwalin’s temper, since he trained them, two standing lookout while the third saw to their mounts downstream from Thorin. Nearby, Dis was showing young Kifir how to fashion a bridle from rope, seeming to latch on to the forty-two year old dwarfling as a substitute for sons she could not interact with, for Fíli met every attempt by her to approach himself or his younger brother with a cold anger and polite dismissal. He had never easily forgiven one who hurt his sibling, even family, and this situation would not mend, Thorin suspected, until Kíli was whole once more.

That could be never.

Kíli was perched nearby on his pony, his brother at the animal’s head monitoring its drinking while the rider seemed lost in some dark dream, hands intently braiding his mount’s mane. Held on by a wide leather belt attached to the saddle at multiple points, the youngest prince continued to have feeling but no movement in his legs, and none could foretell when or if that might change. 

Fíli, Gimli, and Gimli’s friends had all proved adept at distracting the brooding younger dwarf while they stayed within the city, keeping him engaged in life around him as days slipped by with no improvement, until the fever. Every night since, the dreams had plagued Kíli so strongly he often woke shouting garbled words and trembling with an unknown fear. When awake, he was the silent, unapproachable shell that now rode with them, stoically enduring the humiliation of being carried everywhere, being aided by his brother or Thorin with even the most intimate tasks without visible emotion, only interacting when forced by one of them. With everyone else, it was even worse- completely ignoring any verbal attempts and flinching as if struck from the physical.

Unseen by the brothers on the other side of Mithril, Thorin could hear yet another attempt by the older prince to lighten the other’s mood.

“They’re at it again. Come on, little brother, which would you bet will happen first? Thorin finally losing his temper at the pair, Bofur provoking them with a smart remark, or Mother clunking their fool heads together? Or perhaps you favor Glóin brandishing an ax at Dwalin once more? I’d place long odds on that one myself. I’ll put up the pipe weed I won from Pippin against the pocket pie we both know Thorin has hidden to tempt your appetite tonight.”

The younger prince did not even seem aware that he was being spoken to, the melancholia he had descended into obviously deepening; carrying the Kíli they once knew perhaps beyond the bounds of return. Once again, Thorin cursed the fate that had them riding alone. King Aragorn Elessar of Gondor had invited them to ride with the party setting out toward the Gap of Rohan, escorting the hobbits on the first part of their journey home, an honor that it normally would have been very undiplomatic to turn down. That would have meant having two of the greatest healers in all of Middle Earth and a wizard at their call, but it was too great a risk, for the party was easy to track and full of strangers. Not to mention elves, this having turned it into a dubious honor indeed to Thorin’s mind.

The inclusion of Merry and Pippin close to Fíli and Kíli, however, would have made even that bearable for the dwarf king, for that merry pair of hobbits had done much to lighten the spirits of both princes, though to the lasting chagrin of whomever was their latest target, the quartet proving a dangerous combination, indeed. Both had promised to visit Erebor, an occasion Thorin both looked forward to and dreaded, for he had not been spared the mischief after he’d woken from his own bout with an infected wound. Lacing the king’s pipe-weed with pepper had been the least of it.

An exasperated sigh turned his attention once more to his nephews in time to see Fíli reach out, swatting Kíli on one unresponsive leg, then move to kick moodily at the dirt of the bank. Mindful of Aragorn’s parting advice that he allow Fíli to take the lead in handling his little brother, Thorin made no move to stop what happened next. 

Fíli, it seemed, had had enough. With a casual glance around to see if anyone watched them, the older brother took one of the nose bags from the back of his saddle, swiftly leaning down to fill the canvas with water. There was no doubt as to his intended target, either, for Kíli had not even looked up. Just as the elder launched his watery catapult, however, Dis must have glanced at them and noted the interaction, because she yelled.

“Fíli, no!”

This shout finally produced movement from the younger brother, who looked up to receive a face full of water. Thorin could see his sister’s aghast expression turn dark with anger as she moved to scold her eldest, maternal instincts overriding the distance between them, and he moved to intercept, both paying more attention to the younger members of their family then to each other, so they both bore witness to the aftermath. Kíli, sputtering and gasping, pulled water logged hair from his face even as he spurred his pony two steps to his brother and planted a foot solidly against the elder’s shoulder, shoving him off balance to land in the water. Fíli, however, did not get up, seemingly heedless of his cold, wet landing spot as he stared up at the younger dwarf.

“You kicked me.”

It was barely an awed whisper, and then Fíli was up, shouting at the top of his lungs in joyous accusation as he swatted water high into the air.

“Kíli! You kicked me!”

The loud exuberance caused the little horse, known as Ruby, to shy, but Kili’s legs tightened ever so slightly about the barrel of the pony as he yanked the reins, bringing her back under control. One lone tear tracked down the white face of the youngest prince of Erebor as all around him shouts rang out, kin surging in to touch this sign of hope.

8888888888 The Hobbit 88888888888888

It was several hours later when Thorin carefully watched his youngest nephew. Kíli had taken three shuffling steps while leaning upon Bofur and Dwalin before his legs crumpled beneath him, sending him to the ground to sob a long-delayed emotional release. Thorin knew that this was not the end of the danger from the melancholia by far, but it was a critical step back to life for the injured dwarf.  
Now, he laid leaning against his brother on his bedroll, too spent to move more than one of his stocking feet, which rotated, then flexed down as he watched it intently. Fíli seemed more amused than anything else, eyes glinting happily in the firelight as he spoke softly in his brother’s ear. Puzzled, his uncle watched for a long moment, then almost laughed aloud. Kíli had pointed his toes as if they were a large piece of charcoal and was ‘practicing’ his runic alphabet! 

A hand landed on Thorin’s shoulder, the solid presence of Dwalin beside him as he’d been most of the king’s life. A few more lines etched his friend’s face, new tattoos adorning arms and part of his balding pate marked events Thorin had not been alive to witness, but very little else about the warrior had changed, thankfully. It was a consistency that the other dwarf had grabbed onto as a needed anchor in the insanity he’d suddenly found himself living.

“You’d best put a stop to that or the lad won’t sleep for the cramps tonight.”

Thorin smiled slightly, accepting two bowls of stew from the warrior. 

“I know. Can you prepare a sleeping draught for him? And Fíli’s normal draught?”

Dwalin nodded, one eyebrow arched at the first, “Aye, good luck getting the lad to take it!”

The king’s smile faded at the rejoinder, heaving a sigh, “I would welcome such a battle if it replaced this silent indifference. You know the danger signs as well as I.”

His friend made a sour face, undoubtedly recalling bitter past experience with those who’d lost themselves to such despair. 

“Do you think we need to watch the lad?”

It had been the very question whispered in the darkest reaches of Thorin’s soul for days, but not anymore.

“Not now, no.”

A clap on the shoulder, and Dwalin turned back to the fire while Thorin approached the seated duo, mouth quirking when Kíli switched from the letter he was about to create to the first letters of his uncle’s name at his approach. The king lowered himself to the ground, careful not to spill the two bowls that he bore. 

“Here, both of you need to eat. And Kíli that is enough for now, you need rest.”

A silent frown answered him, but Thorin was not inclined to push for verbal communication tonight, knowing that when the younger dwarf was emotional or tired, both of which now applied, he tended to still have trouble recalling the correct words. It was enough that his nephew showed life once more, animating his brother in turn, for Fíli had been slowly falling to the melancholia that enveloped his sibling as surely as he had caught any other illness the younger dwarf ever had. Their close bond made them a formidable team, but it was also their greatest weakness, a fact that had Thorin grateful nightly to Mahal that both had been returned and not one without the other. 

Just now, Kíli fumbled even with the simple act of lifting spoon from bowl to mouth, he was so exhausted, yet his hands also trembled with the aftermath of adrenaline, intoxicating him as surely as the strongest drink. He would not sleep without aid this night, Thorin knew. 

Finally, the younger brother finished his meal, one hand coming up in the dwarven sign language, Iglishmêk.

‘Stand. Walk. Now.’

Fíli groaned, leaning in to his brother’s ear before Thorin could answer.

“No, you’re exhausted, little brother. You’ll need that energy for tomorrow. Come on, lay down.”

A shake of the dark head and a spark of defiance in the eye that they had not seen in two weeks almost had Thorin questioning the decision he’d made earlier as Dwalin came over to them, two steaming cups in his hands. Thorin accepted both wordlessly, a sniff telling him which was which from the odor of the herbs contained in the draughts. He handed the mild pain reliever to Fíli, knowing without the other having to say a word that his bruised ribs and shoulder still ached, fading colors giving testimony to the force of the original blow though he was no longer required to wear a sling. The golden haired brother grimaced, but quickly swallowed it, setting the empty vessel aside to help hold the cup Kíli seemed upon the verge of dropping. The younger dwarf let his brother have it, then turned his head away in mute refusal. Unfortunately, this was one fight Kíli could not be allowed to win, for the sudden exercise would undoubtedly cause cramps in long unused muscles and the sheen of the tenacious fever produced a slight glaze in his eyes.

“Drink, before it gets cold and tastes twice as bad.”

The tone gave no doubt that this was an order, though Thorin allowed his face to remain unmasked from the façade of the stern king that he normally displayed. The drink was downed with a sour face, but no further argument, the brothers laying on their bedrolls within touching distance of each other, as was their habit of old. Both soon succumbed to the pull of sleep and medication, watched over by their uncle.


	14. Shadows of the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which politics plays a central role, and Dis' reunion with her sons hits more bumps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

14\. Shadows of the Past

After being assured that both slept too deeply to easily wake, Thorin moved himself a little further away, and then caught Dwalin’s eye, a few short signs all that was needed to convey his message. The warrior tapped Glóin on the shoulder, both moving to join their king.

“You wanted to speak with us?”

Dwalin kept his voice low, though neither prince stirred. Thorin narrowed his eyes at both his old friends, who immediately shifted uncomfortably as if the youngest dwarf trainees.

“Yes. What are the two of you not saying? I have seen the looks that you give to Dis, the uneasiness when certain topics arise, such as Moria. What would possess Balin to try such a thing? He advised me even against attempting to retake Erebor!”

The two looked at each other and then around, as if seeking any means of escape even as Dwalin’s face darkened at the criticism leveled at his brother, but Thorin was no longer in a mood to allow any such evasions. When they had been in the human city, he had not pressed, for curious ears could lurk anywhere, but not out here. If he was to lead his people once more, there could not be anything left unsaid, no matter how unpleasant the speech to those involved.

“He believed he had failed you, a guilt that was reinforced every time he sat in council with Dain and watched his advice ignored. Finally, he could no longer take it, I think, for he would say little to me, and flat out refused me when I wished to accompany him. Said I had a duty to maintain the safety of Erebor, not to follow the vague prophecies of a priest, but that he owed it to you and to Thrór to try.”

The old fool! Thorin closed his eyes, brow furrowed in sorrow for the pain his closest advisor, and in some ways surrogate father, had felt. Guilt began to gnaw at him once more for the blindness of his last acts inside Erebor, though he now believed he had been at least partially influenced by the Ring innocently carried by Bilbo. Had that also been behind his desperation for the Arkenstone, or had that been the influence of the gem, somehow sensing the danger it was in and seeking a way to its true master? That thought was one that did not rest easily upon the dwarf, for he carried the thing still, not even Gandalf sure of its powers. Could such a thing truly have a form of rudimentary intelligence? Or was it the imaginings of those desperate for any explanation of unpredictable events?

“And you, Glóin? What is it that troubles you so? Do not think I am unaware of the messages you have received by raven that you seek to hide.”

The fiery tempered dwarf scowled at him.

“You won’t like it.”

Thorin kept tight reign upon his temper. He was tired of others seeking to protect him from ill news! He would have the truth out of these two even if Dis still held stubbornly silent, turning a hard stare on the other until finally Glóin spoke.

“I believe that there is at least one traitor within the mountain, and what is worse, so does Nori.”

“What?!”

Dwalin’s infuriated shout startled all, Fíli jerking awake with one hand going to his sword before raising his head to glare at the old warrior even as he hushed a drugged Kíli. Thorin settled for adding a thunderous scowl at both his old companions, displeasure no longer hidden, before turning to his nephews.

“Go back to sleep, Fíli, all is well. Dwalin will keep his voice down.” Thorin watched the two for a long moment before turning back to the problem at hand. “Explain that, Glóin!”

“Did someone tell you of the demands by the messenger of Mordor?”

“Yes, Gimli mentioned it. Sauron had learned Bilbo found the Ring. Why?”

Glóin’s face darkened, “Exactly. He found out about Bilbo from that wretched creature, Gollum, but how did he discover the hobbit was associated with us? I would not accuse even Thranduil of giving such information to Mordor, but someone did. Then the allies of Mordor knew exactly where our border patrols were the weakest, sweeping men of Dale and dwarves easily aside to bring the fighting to our very gates, and now the news of Thorin’s return from death is spreading far and wide!”

“What about Oain and Fain? I’d believe such a thing out of those two, they’re half bloody Blacklock!”

Dwalin spoke with such open contempt that Thorin had to bite back a slight smile, wondering what the two had done to offend the large warrior so. Granted, Dwalin had never had much faith in those who were not of Durin’s Folk unless they proved themselves as Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur had.

“Aye, we thought of that, but not even Nori and all his clever traps have ferreted out the traitors. Do you truly believe either of those two has the intelligence to hide such activities for long? Nor would Dain often allow them to journey from the Iron Hills, and now I wonder why! Beware, Thorin, even after you stand in the Halls of Erebor once more, I’d rather that tomb stayed empty a long while.”

“I will take your words into consideration, Glóin, and if you receive more messages…”

Glóin flushed, “You will see them at once. It is not so easy to overcome almost eighty years of secrecy, Thorin, I am sorry.”

A nod dismissed them and acknowledged that unavoidable truth as Thorin watched the two return to their own bedrolls, settling down for the night. It was not so easy for him, either. He was almost asleep when the large warrior hailed him once more.

“Thorin!”

Dwalin squatted down next to his king with a wary glance over his shoulder to where two figures waited in the gloom, one considerably taller than any dwarf.

“Frer just came into camp with a man asking for ‘Lord Durin.’"

Eyes narrowed, the king stood, one hand on the hilt of Orcrist as he approached the stranger, for there were not yet many who would hail him as such. The man was lean, with the brown hair and eyes common among those of Gondor, garbed in forest green and with a bow riding over one shoulder. As Thorin approached, the man bowed.

“Lord Durin?”

“I am.”

“I am Captain Mablung of the Ithilien Rangers, at your service.” The man had manners, at least. “I was instructed by Lord Faramir to watch for your party upon the road and return this to you should we meet.”  
One hand was extended, a small carved wooden bead resting in his palm. Thorin took it, rolling it casually between his fingers as he considered the ranger for a long moment. Then, he gave a courteous tilt of his head.  
“I thank you. It must have been left in my quarters in the White City.”

One corner of the king’s mouth quirked at Dwalin’s soft snort of amusement next to him at the idea of anyone going out of their way to return such a trinket, but it had served its intended purpose, and dwarven made beads were the one item common in these southern markets. 

Beads had long been gifted as a sign of friendship or a thank you for hospitality, even to outsiders, so the items had not raised suspicions when received by certain people as Thorin took his leave of the city. Given what the king had to work with, it had sufficed, for few now remembered the origins of the custom- they had been signals passed between dwarven leaders that the messenger and message could be trusted as true.   
Dwarf artisans had long developed their art to the point that one dwarf could identify another’s work simply by touch; distinctive habits such as the way tools were held leaving subtle differences that were very difficult to counterfeit. This particular bead had been carved for Thorin by young Kifir, and the Khuzdul letter for the beginning of Faramir’s name had been carefully interwoven in the design. 

Mutual recognition signs given and acknowledged, dwarves and man relaxed slightly, tension draining from the air. Thorin waved the man toward the fire, where coffee sat heating for those on watch. Mablung accepted a cup, taking a long swallow before speaking.

“Lord Faramir instructed that I lead a company of rangers to provide security and guidance while you are still within Gondor’s lands. Disturbing rumors have come to his attention of those who bear too much interest in your party and its intended route, and offers of employment to those who would sell their sword for any cause.”

Thorin stirred in disquiet, the anger and tension radiating off Dwalin at his shoulder unmistakable. Mablung held up a hand to forestall whatever the large dwarf was about to say, continuing.

“My people know these lands very well. We can break from the road at a point about two days’ ride from here and guide you around the western edge of the Dead Marshes, where we will be by that accursed place less than a day rather than the three days needed upon the road, and across the Emyn Muil to rejoin the road far north in the Brown Lands. This will throw off those wishing to pursue and prevent the necessity of riding across the battle plain before the Black Gate; an unhealthy place for some time to come says Lord Elessar.”

Thorin mulled that one over, instantly appreciating the value of the ranger’s offer, for the Dead Marshes had a very dark reputation. Created from the changing weather patterns after the first defeat of Sauron by the Last Alliance of Elves and Men (the arrogance of other races knew no bounds, for many of the bravest of Durin’s Folk had also died there), the waters washed over the shallow graves, entombing the restless dead in foul spillage tainted by the dark power of Mordor’s Lord. This, in turn, was said to make them jealous of the living that were brave or foolhardy enough to disturb their rest with footsteps, and they would pull the breathing to join them it they could. This was especially not a place he wished Kíli exposed to.

“That would be most helpful, captain, I am in your debt.”

Dwalin shifted, stiffening at that, but Thorin held up one hand, forestalling any argument for now, knowing his kinsman would not press with an outsider near. Some old behavior patterns were proving much easier to return to than others.

The next day, the mood of the party was much more relaxed, even as they reached the crossroads and turned north. It was evident that the men of Gondor wasted no time in reclaiming this part of their ancient domain, for the statue of the king already had its head restored, though the patching was very hastily done. There were a few ripples of disgust at the sloppy job, but that would no doubt be remedied when Gimli led some of their kin south to aid in the rebuilding. That had been a request it was most easy for Thorin to grant, for he liked and respected the new king of Gondor and his young steward. Erebor needed allies that would not demand their weight in gold in return, for Middle-Earth had dangers within it still.

All rode easier with the knowledge that these allies were near at hand, the rangers rarely seen as they spread out in a screen around the riders several meters on all sides. Dwalin was the only one who kept a hand to a weapon, still wary, but holding his peace for now. Thorin knew he’d be hearing from his old friend before too much longer, however. 

Nearby, Kíli was actually in a wordless conversation with Fíli, the first true signs of healing in the youngest prince heartening to all. The young dwarf still wore the belt anchoring him, but his legs would occasionally aid him in shifting in the saddle, yet another step forward. Thorin watched his nephew, considering, then was diverted by the flash of lightning in the mountains they rode beside. Fortunately, the rain seemed content to stay within the heights and not dampen their steps, a rainbow even brightening the sky at their noon stop.

Once more, they ended their day’s journey slightly earlier than normal, knowing that Kíli could not endure a full day of riding yet. It was after a meal of venison provided by the rangers that Dwalin at last made his way to his liege’s side, scowl firmly in place.

“Are you certain we can trust these men? What is to prevent them from leading us into the wild to fulfill some dark plan they claim to guide us to prevent?”

Thorin calmly finished lighting his pipe, thankful that pipe-weed was in abundance in the southern city where it was used as a control against pests. The gaze he leveled on the older dwarf had lost none of its piercing command.

“I have made my decision, Dwalin. These men were chosen by Faramir, which is all the assurance I need.”

The king stalked away before the other could respond, knowing that his temper neared the slipping point. Seeking a distraction, and knowing Dwalin wouldn’t dare interrupt, he headed for his youngest nephew, once more sitting upon his already prepared bedroll. Kíli seemed to be so focused on something he sought to make his feet do that he didn’t even look up until his uncle sat beside him, one hand warmly clasping the young one’s shoulder.

“How are you feeling this evening, Kíli?”

Hands came up to answer in Iglishmêk, ‘Look!’

A foot kicked out, sending a rock skittering across the ground to halt against Glóin’s leg, scalding rebuke dying on the fiery dwarf’s lips as he traced the source of the offending object. Instead, the older dwarf gave Kíli an indulgent shake of the head, the prince’s flush of chagrin making it clear he hadn’t thought out the move before acting. Thorin’s lips quirked in his own amusement before he quietly addressed the other.  
“Enough, Kíli. Tomorrow, I want you to ride with Fíli and practice with your bow. I have already warned the rangers, so they will ensure you have a safe corridor of fire and Fíli may retrieve the arrows for you.”  
The surprise and apprehension in the other’s face was only a brief flicker, but Thorin caught it, biting back another sigh. Kíli had been practicing with a bow both afoot and mounted since he evidenced an aptitude for the weapon at a very young age, easily outshooting any other dwarf bold enough to challenge the young prince, including his own uncle. The last time he had used a bow, however… Kíli may not have retained any conscious memory of that fearful battle, but the unconscious could harbor many fell secrets, leading many a warrior to freeze when next faced with danger. He must become comfortable once again with a weapon to hand lest he become a liability in an attack.

‘Not ready.’

The hands objected, face turned to avoid his uncle’s, obscured by a curtain of dark unruly hair. Thorin reached out and gently took the chin, forcibly turning his nephew’s head until their eyes met, fear and doubt dancing in the dark orbs.

“Yes, you are.”

“P-please, no, I-“

Startled at the broken, hoarse verbal response and the panic now openly upon the young face, Thorin almost gave in, then he stilled further silent words by simply enveloping Kili’s hands, ignoring the flinch given upon contact. Once again, Thorin found himself cursing the circumstances that required he squash that tiny spark of Kili’s defiance, the very reaction he’d been so long hoping to provoke. 

“Enough.” He repeated his earlier admonishment, “This is no different than training, Kíli. You will do as you are told.”

Tremors ran through the hands he held, but the dark head bobbed in a silent nod of acquiescence, as it so often had on the practice field. Another voice intruding sent jolts through both dwarves.

“Uncle, Kíli, what’s wrong?”

Fíli folded himself down upon the ground, three mugs in his hand and completely headless of the scowl sent his way by his uncle. The older brother had never shied from Thorin’s wrath when it was his younger brother in the line of fire, seeking to protect his sibling even from a member of the family. One mug, a bitter tinge to its odor, was held out to Kíli, who took it, but set it untouched beside him as hands threatened to slop the liquid out of its cup. Probably knowing the outcome should he breach the true topic in dispute, Kili’s hands signed a different tale.

‘I want to ride on my own, without that belt.’

Fíli sighed as he sipped at his tea, one hand rubbing his brother’s shoulder reassuringly.

“You will. Your legs simply need time to strengthen again. Now, drink that.”

There was another grimace of distaste as Kíli retrieved his cup, then paused as if to cast aside the foul potion. Thorin and Fíli both held their breath, neither one entirely willing to scold should the action be taken, but then the defiance slipped away, replaced once again by the familiar indifferent mask as the herbs were swallowed. The melancholia, Thorin knew, would not be so easily defeated.   
He and Fíli aided the youngest down as sleep quickly dropped over him, the draught aided by Kili’s own exhaustion, then pulled a blanket over the sleeper. Fíli reached out absently in the resulting comfortable silence, one hand smoothing strands of dark hair back from his brother’s face and feeling the forehead.

“Fever?”

Dis’ quiet question alerted them to her approach, and she looked as if she wanted to check for herself, but settled instead on the other side of Thorin from her sons, respectful of the distance that Fíli had imposed between them. Neither brother nor sister missed the sudden tension in her elder son’s body at her intrusion. Fíli, however, at least chose to answer her.

“No, it seems to be staying away. I should have thought about that before I doused him with that water yesterday.”

“I’m grateful you didn’t.” Dis returned, smiling sadly. “Besides, it was my yelling that brought his head up or most of it would’ve missed him, as was doubtless your intention.” She cocked an eyebrow at her own brother, “Thorin, do you remember when I did something similar to Frérin out by the gate springs? Father was furious!”

Thorin softened, one callused finger tweaking the end of his baby sister’s nose.

“It was almost winter, not a warm late summer day as yesterday was. Besides, you caused Frérin to lose the dagger Father had just given him for his name-day the week before to the rushing waters. Had I not grabbed him, he’d have surely tried going after it.”

Next to them, Kíli shifted restlessly, his uncle stroking the dark hair in reassurance, in his mind seeing another restless sleeper.

“This one is so much like him at times it is breathtaking.” The soft words dissolved into a rueful grimace, “Even to finding the smallest comment that unwittingly pricks my temper. At least- mostly unwittingly.”

Fíli had grinned, eyes sparking in mischief at the use of ‘unwittingly’, making Thorin hastily add the qualifier. He should have known the two rascals would occasionally use their uncle’s own temper to divert him from other concerns, for there were some topics that were guaranteed to engender a rant. How often had they made use of such underhanded tactics?

Dis smiled, absently reaching toward her youngest as his head tossed, mumbled words barely audible, only to have her hand blocked by Fíli’s own. She ducked her head, silver-grey braids falling down to hide her face, and she wordlessly left, accepting her eldest’s edict without a fight. Thorin watched for a long moment than rounded on his golden haired nephew, who met his gaze with unyielding stone. 

“That was ill done and disrespectful, Fíli. She is your mother, no matter your feelings at the moment.”

Fíli’s expression didn’t change except for a spark of fire in his eyes, anger not having appreciably cooled in the two weeks since, it seemed.

“She turned her back on him when all he asked was her presence, on both of us. You know how vulnerable Kíli is right now; would you have me leave him open to further hurt?”

The bitterness in the spat words was a deep, festering wound that he had not the skill to lance, though he tried.

“Can you not see how sorely losing you hurt her, how deeply she fears it happening once more?”

There was an ominous finality to Fíli’s answer.

“She already has.”


	15. Washed Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which all become waterlogged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

15\. Washed Away

Morning saw Kíli practicing awkwardly on crutches made for him by Bofur, steps hesitant, but a much needed sign of independence for the young prince as Fíli hovered, ready to support his brother should he falter. Dis stood nearby, watching with sad eyes, but she did not attempt to approach again. Soon, however, they had broken camp and were on the road, one eye upon the threatening clouds moving down from the mountains. Thorin held Mithril back until he rode beside Fíli and Kíli.

"It is time, Kíli. One of the rangers has cut an x into one of the trees ahead; let us see how you do."

Kíli flinched slightly at his uncle's words, but gamely drew his bow from where it was encased on his saddle. One arrow was notched, though the dwarf hesitated, hands shaking.

"You can do it, Kíli. Just as you always have."

The soft encouragement was instantly echoed by Bofur and Kifir, riding directly behind. Kíli drew in a deep breath, smoothly pulled and loosed, the arrow flying true to halt quivering in the exact center of the x, still some distance down the road. A ranger almost instantly appeared, looking surprised at the skill shown by one so young. A smile slowly blossomed upon the young prince’s face, and the next shot was smooth, without a sign of shake, producing cheers from several within the group, the loudest being, naturally, Fíli.

“Well done, Kíli.”

Thorin gave his nephew a small nod of approval with the words, the glitter of life in his sister-son’s eyes well worth the risk he knew this had been. To his further pleasure, the reply was a verbal one.

“T-thank you, Uncle.”

Kíli was able to take several more shots before the first drops of water put an end to the practice, rain soon pouring heavily down, though none among them could truly begrudge this newly freed land what it needed to begin the long process of renewal. Even Glóin looked about with approval at the first sprouts of green, commenting on a similar process that had taken place in the former desolation of Smaug, which caught the attention of Fíli and Kíli. Soon, the three were in an intense conversation about the changes, allowing Thorin to discretely drop back to ride beside Dis. She immediately rolled her eyes at the transparent maneuver, but did not move away.

“Give them time, Dis. You hurt them badly when you would not go to Kíli in Minas Tirith. I was not pleased, either.”

That earned another eye roll, his sister’s favorite way of expressing exasperation with her older siblings for too many years to count.

“I believe that was clear when you barged into my room bellowing, Thorin. Did you not consider what I must feel, having them both suddenly brought back to me, only to face losing one again within hours? Even now I wake at night with dreams of what they must have gone through on that battlefield, cursing myself for ever allowing them to follow you.”

There was a bitter defensiveness to the words that bothered the king, knowing too well his sister’s ability to hide the true hurt. She would not speak of it until a time of her own choosing, and until she did, there was little he could say to her sons that would resolve the situation. Still, he would not allow a chance to prod her to pass by.

“You could not have stopped them.”

“A fact that I am painfully aware of. It has taken me seventy years to stop seeing Fíli and Kíli in every turn of-“

Mind fixed upon the tension with his sister and relaxed by the surroundings, Thorin was not aware of their danger until it was almost too late, even as Dis broke off with a gasp of horror. A sound like unto the coming of the fire-drake jerked his head toward the Mountains of Shadow just in time to see a wall of water descending upon them.

"Look out! Ride!"

The king knocked heels to his mount even as his deep voice bellowed the warning. Mithril leapt forward, running hard, hooves pounding all around them as the others followed suit, but it was a race they were doomed to lose. The flood waters hit with all the force of a dragon, knocking Thorin from his pony even as he gasped for air to fill his lungs, head swinging wildly for a glimpse of Fíli and Kíli. 

All was darkness, water spinning him as easily as a child's toy, head impacting hard against something solid. His head abruptly broke water, air gulped into battered lungs, eyes straining to catch a glimpse of his surroundings when he spotted dark long hair and reached out, catching a handful of hair before being dunked under once more. The tossing about seemed to continue unending when the pull of the water cut off and Thorin thrust himself up, striving for the surface even as he pulled the other behind him. His feet abruptly connected with rock, and he somehow found the strength to pull them ashore before collapsing into unconsciousness.

Thorin woke lying next to a corpse, dark long hair tangled, obscuring the young dwarf's face. Kíli! Hands quaking, he grasped at the other, desperate to return life, hitting at the still chest. His head ached with the force of his blows, focus upon the other with the exclusion of all else. He was not aware that the curses he heard were voiced by him. Hands grabbed at him, restraining, and he fought to twist from them even as a voice shouted in his ear.

"Thorin! Thorin, stop, he is past our aid! Thorin!"

It was the feel of the coarse chainmail under his hands that finally stopped his frantic actions, for Kíli had worn leather over a fine mithril weave. As he calmed, the throbbing in his head abated somewhat, allowing coherency to return and allow someone to move the body from next to him, neck skewed at an angle making it clear that the young guard had not survived long enough to drown. 

"Lady, your young companion has a fire going in the hollow. We need to move Lord Thorin out of this wind and see to any wounds. My men will continue to search for the rest of your party."

His mind supplied him with a name- Mablung. Thorin forced his eyes open once more, but everything was blurred and swirling sickeningly as if still underwater. The worst of the pain was localizing to his forehead and one elbow as he closed his eyes again, unable to make sense of his surroundings. Of more concern was who had been found.

"Who-?"

The mumbled question was incomplete and misunderstood by his companions.

"Mablung, my lord. I have Lady Dis with me."

His sister was safe, relief washed through him as he felt her gently guiding his efforts to push himself to a seated position then tilted his head to check his forehead. Her tongue clicked in dismay as probing fingers provoked another stab of pain. 

"We are losing light fast. Can you open your eyes, Thorin?"

He obliged, though the pain stabbed once more as the light of the setting sun hit them, his sister's face wavering. The dwarf held still as long as he could, and Dis did not object when his eyes closed once more.

"Concussion. Are you hurt anywhere else?"

The lady dwarf concluded grimly. Thorin shook his head cautiously; long experience assuring him the rest was bruises and perhaps some cracked bones at worst. Dwarves rarely broke bones as their skeletons were almost as strong as the metal that they forged, allowing for incredible strength and endurance. 

"Has anyone else been located? Give me a hand up, Dis; we need to find the others."

Her arm came around him, steadying, and voice soft in his ear.

"Mablung is speaking with one of his rangers, wait a moment."

Thorin grunted, unwilling to risk another nod that would surely intensify the pounding inside his skull. He could feel his sister running careful hands over his body, obviously not willing to trust her stubborn sibling’s assessment. Her hands stilled near his hip.

“Thorin-“

“What?”

The king risked opening his eyes a fraction to look down at what concerned her, light already mercifully dimmer. Dis was fingering the torn remains of a pouch at his belt. Thorin frowned, concussed mind attempting to connect the action with anything that might engender that level of concern from her short of a bone sticking out of his skin. When his memory supplied the information, he groaned, eyes slipping back closed.

“The Arkenstone!”

The thing could be anywhere in that river! Dis’ hand ran up and down his arm as if to comfort him, a gesture he appreciated, but didn’t need. The king in him would worry about that damn stone once the uncle was assured that his nephews were safe. Never again would he put the material above the familial if he could help it!

The shadow of the ranger came over them, Thorin risking a squint once more, though the man looked to be relieved about something.

"My men found two more, the white bearded dwarf and the young yellow haired one. Neither are seriously injured."

"Thank Mahal, Fíli and Glóin.” His sister breathed, “I managed to grab Kifir, pushed him up onto a rock, and Dwalin tried to catch me, but we were ripped apart. Can you walk? Camp isn't far."

"I'll make it." 

Thorin assured them, grimly determined to stay upright despite a swimming head. He felt the man place a hand under his elbow, and he cracked his eyes barely open enough to guide his steps. To the king, it felt as if they walked for hours, the pounding growing with every footfall, until at last someone pressed him down, a blanket thrown over him. Either the men had a supply cache nearby or one of their pack ponies had survived the flooding. No longer moving, his head settled to a dull throb and he risked opening his eyes once again.

He was lying near a small fire, stars painting a beautiful panorama arching across the sky above him, as if mocking the nightmare they'd just survived. Or at least some of them had. Seated by the fire feeding it small branches was Kifir, one arm sporting a bandage, face white except for red rimmed eyes that spoke of his fear and distress. Beyond was the large form of a man sleeping under a blanket, Dis coming to kneel beside her brother before he could take note of more. She began to gently clean and bandage the cut on his forehead. His sister, at least, did not look to be injured, though her hair could charitably be said to resemble a rat's nest.

"We'll need to wake you tonight."

"Fíli and Glóin?"

"Glóin has a badly sprained ankle and the same minor cuts and bruises as the rest of us. He's asleep just behind you. Fíli-” She hesitated, eyes troubled, “The men say he woke before we returned and went wild, trying to find Kíli. They were forced to use a sleeping draught before he injured himself or one of them. I do not want to lose him-"

Thorin squeezed one hand in reassurance, "Do not give up hope yet, Dis. They are both strong."

"It’s not their strength that I doubt, Thorin."

No, it was her own. He could hear the unspoken words, see the fear. Dis was terrified she'd lose them again; therefore she was pushing them away. That remoteness was an old reflexive shield in their family the siblings had sworn they would not allow after the deaths of so many loved ones, but it was hard to tell ones emotions what to do.

Knowing he would be more hindrance than help, Thorin did not resist Mablung's urging to eat and rest. The thought of those still missing, however, tore at him, especially the fate of his youngest nephew. Kíli would not have been able to easily free himself from the saddle he was belted to, nor swim against the current. The longer the prince went unfound-

Thorin jerked his mind away from such dark speculation, for it would aid none, though the thoughts inevitably pulled at him every time he glanced to where Fíli lay in an unnaturally still sleep. The use of the herbs had been necessary, of that Thorin was certain, but worrisome, for the specter of madness lurked within their heritage. Aragorn had warned him not to allow the two to be separated, but none had counted on this.

“Does anyone know what happened?”

He mustered the awareness to ask that as Dis came over to him once more, checking his pupils. She glanced warily to the fire, ensuring Bofur’s son was not within earshot, and then answered.

“The rangers think that a stone dam high in the mountains gave way under the weight of the storms, though they could not check to be certain. It was simply bad timing that all of us were in the way. They have lost two men that they know of, and have promised to continue searching until moonset makes it too dangerous in the dark, then resume at first light. There is nothing we can do now save wait.”

He nodded, aching head easing down onto the folded blanket she’d given him to serve as a pillow, and allowed exhaustion to pull him into sleep.


	16. What was Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the aftermath of the flood is explored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

16\. What was Lost

Black images chased him in dreams, so much so that it was with relief that he was shaken awake every few hours to check his head injury. The first time, it was Mablung, the ranger sadly reporting several dead ponies and another of the guards, Frer, drowned. It was not information to lend easing to Thorin’s troubled mind, images of Kíli staring, eyes sightless, neck twisted, jolting him awake the second time even as a hand reached for his shoulder. When he focused on the one waking him however, his heart leapt, for it was a bedraggled, scratched up Dwalin.

“You are well?”

Thorin demanded before the other could say a word, the warrior awarding him a grim smile.

“I had thought I was to ask you that. I’m fine, a few bruised ribs is all, grabbed hold of Mithril’s saddle when he slammed into me, and we made our way to shore. After that, I followed the shore back upstream until I saw the light of the camp fire and ran into one of the rangers. He’d just found one of our pack ponies wandering, so we’ve a few supplies, at least. I heard about Frer and Litr. No sign of Bofur, Kíli, or Nast?”

“None yet.”

Thorin sat up with the aid of Dwalin, body protesting every move, looking around. Dis still lay on the other side of the fire, but Kifir now huddled near Fíli, one of the older dwarf’s hands resting reassuringly on the younger one’s shoulder. The king tilted his head at the two inquiringly, and Dwalin sighed, a heavy sound that seemed to come from deep within the powerful body.

“Fíli woke a bit as I checked on him soon after I arrived, saw Kifir still hunched by the fire and called him over. Not sure how awake the lad really was, though, he called him ‘Kee’.”

“That nickname could apply to either one.”

Nor was Thorin about to disregard anyone or anything that allowed the older prince to rest easier. The warrior nodded, but watched the two sleepers, troubled. The king did not need words to know the fears running through his old friend’s head, for they matched his own. He eased his aching head back down, exhaustion still deep in his bones, Dwalin’s solid presence once again a reassurance and safety as it had been of old.

The third time he woke, it was just after dawn, a small huddle of Mablung and two other rangers speaking quietly a short distance from the sleepers. With a soft groan, he forced muscles to begin the torturous process of sitting once again, a hand suddenly aiding in the center of his back. Looking to his left, he met the grumpy gaze of Glóin, who gave a slight nod at the rangers.

“Mablung.”

Thorin called softly, the captain spinning instantly at his name in a disgustingly easy and alert manner. As he noted the two, he turned back to the other rangers, accepting an object from one before waving them toward a small cooking fire where a coffee pot already stood ready, then headed for Thorin. He gave a respectful inclination of the head as he seated himself near the dwarves.

“Lord Thorin, Lord Glóin, I am pleased to see you both awake. My men have brought back heartening news.”

“Oh?”

Thorin’s tone warned the man that he was in no mood for word games.

“Aye. Two more of your party are across the waters, waiting for better light to find a safe crossing. The names they gave are Bofur and Nast. Isn’t one of them the father of young Kifir?”

“Yes, Bofur is.”

Thorin glanced over at Fíli and Kifir, still in the same positions he’d last saw them in. At least one would wake to no further grief this day, though Thorin would be lying did he say he’d not wished it were Kíli safe and whole.

“What’s in your hand?”

Glóin growled, accepting the leather wrapped item from the man with a frown.

“One of my men found it just after dawn, sticking in the bank not far from here. It is not an arrow make with which I am familiar.”

The long shaft that was revealed was made of white wood, metal head a small triangle shape, skillfully bound and fletched with blue dyed feathers. Thorin paled at the sight, one blunt finger gently caressing the fletching. Glóin, however, wrinkled his nose in distaste.

“Elves!”

The word was spat in a tone that made it clear the dwarf thought of it as a curse.

“No.” Thorin disagreed softly, “Kíli now carries an elven bow with blue fletched arrows, or had you forgotten? This is one of his, probably washed from his quiver.”

Mablung was shaking his head.

“Not possible, it was stuck upright out of the ground above the highest washed up debris, as if it had been fired. Thom called out when he found it and received no answer, but the fog made it difficult to see far. We intend to return to the spot now that the morning sun begins to burn it off.”

“I’m going with you.”

There was no doubt that it was not a request, and Mablung had enough sense not to waste his breath in argument, instead helping the king to his feet and steadying him against the inevitable wave of dizziness. Thorin found his balance and waved the man off, turning to Glóin, who was once again scowling, this time at the ankle that made it impossible for him to join the search party.

“Glóin, keep watch on Fíli and tell Dis and Dwalin to stay here, help the men see to our dead. I’ll send word as soon as we have news.”

“They won’t like it, especially Dwalin.”

That drew a bitter bark of laughter from the king.

“He ought to be used to it by now. This was a simple act of nature, not a planned attack; I will be in no danger with the rangers.”

The two rangers and the dwarf set off at a fast pace, but were soon forced to slow as the footing grew muddy and uncertain. Several times, they were forced to divert around land made unstable by the force of the flood waters cutting

through loose soil and tossing up piles of debris. Two packs were spotted among the flotsam and retrieved, one of them Dis’, which she’d doubtless appreciate.

Next to them, this newly formed river still raged, proving it was not simply the result of runoff in the mountains. More likely, an ancient stream had found its bed blocked in the long years of drought, and sought a new path, flooded by the rains until the land gave way before it. Surveying it now and knowing it was less than the original surge, Thorin could only marvel that any of them had survived at all, let alone in fairly hale shape.

Water had never been an element in which dwarves were comfortable, their dense skeletons ensuring they tended to sink quickly without vigorous strokes to ensure they stayed upon the surface. Many never learned basic water skills as a result, though Thorin ensured that it was a part of Fíli and Kili’s training, to Dis’ discomfort. As they topped the small rise near where Thom stated he found the arrow, some wisps of mist still hanging near the water’s surface, Thorin felt his breath catch, for a small island of rocks could be seen in the center of the stream and atop it stood a familiar red pony with a figure slumped upon her back.

Before Thorin could call out to the younger dwarf, a blond blur shot toward the shore, and the king spun, battle tested reflexes allowing him to grab hold before the other could throw himself into the swirling brown water. Mentally, he berated himself for not ensuring Fíli was truly still asleep before they left, and not waking Dis or Dwalin to watch him, as Glóin would have no chance of stopping the younger one immobilized as he was. Fíli fought his uncle’s arms with a wildness that spoke of desperation, body quivering with fear and adrenaline. Thorin grimly transferred his grip to the young one’s shoulders, shaking him slightly even as he shook his head at the two men hovering, as if unsure how to help. This was for him alone to deal with.

“Fíli! Stop this!”

The sharp words were bellowed at the blond, who jerked as if struck, than slumped, still shaking, but with sanity returning to those blue eyes. Beyond the two dwarves, something in the river had caught the attention of Mablung and Thom, but Thorin did not bother trying to see what else had occurred. His world was between his hands at the moment. Fíli straightened in his grasp, the glaze of the last of the herbs used on him the night before clearing as he shook his head, looking to the ground to avoid his uncle’s critical gaze in his embarrassment.

“I’m all right, I swear. I’m sorry, Thorin, I just-“

Thorin cut off his sister-son with another slight shake of his shoulders, the other finally glancing up to see pride in Fíli’s strength in overcoming the panic reflected there. One hand came up to gently tug at a partially undone golden braid, eyes soft.

“It is not often I see you so untidy. What will your brother have to say?”

The quiet teasing quirked a slight smile to the younger dwarf’s face, relaxing and centering him further, as Thorin had intended. As one, the two looked to their lost one atop his pony to receive a second shock. Kíli was no longer slumped atop Ruby, but faced them across the intervening waters, arrow to bow, deadly intent written in the rigid stance and fiery eyes.


	17. Has Been Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a new enemy is discovered and Kili takes a few steps forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

17\. Has Been Found

“Kíli! Put down the bow! It’s me! Thorin’s with me!”

“I’m here, Kíli!”

Thorin instantly added his call to that of his nephew, watching with held breath as the figure wavered, confusion washing across the face before eyes refocused upon his kin.

“Fíli?”

“I’m here! Are you hurt?”

The hands shook as Kíli fumbled with his bow, arrow slipping with a clatter to the rock that had saved dwarf and pony. The archer finally managed to slip it to his back, then clucked at Ruby, urging her toward the water as if intending to attempt a crossing.

“Kíli! Stay where you are!”

The roar caused Fíli to jerk his head away, hand clapping over the ear closest to his uncle, not that Thorin cared, as it stopped Kíli in his tracks, obedience to that voice too ingrained from the training grounds to ignore.

“How do we get to him?” Fíli asked a hint of panic returning to his words, a wild edge to desperate blue eyes. “That current’s too swift for him to swim even if his legs were strong enough.”

“He’s better off staying on that pony.” Thom cut in, grey eyes matching the grey in his hair, no doubt a veteran of many such situations. “If one of us enters the water up stream, we’d have a chance to reach him swimming with the current.”

However, wisdom did not always come with age, Thorin mentally added to his earlier judgment before drily observing, “Or we’d have another to rescue. We’d do better to throw a rope to him. Kíli can tie it around himself and we pull him across. The pony can make her own way.”

The ranger captain pursed his lips, considering the dwarf’s words as he gazed across the intervening waters.

“We can try, Lord Thorin, but I doubt anyone could throw that far. We’d have to get the rope over the pony unless the boy can dismount.”

Beside him, Thorin felt Fíli stiffen at the use of the term ‘boy’ for his brother, who was most likely twice the age of the ranger captain, but now was not the time to correct such ignorance. The race of man had long been blind to any not like themselves, an appalling arrogance for such short-lived and breakable beings. They were weak in other ways, as well. Thorin snorted, cutting off the blond even as he opened his mouth to deliver some scathing remark to the man.

“Fíli can easily make such a throw. Stand back.”

Debris washed ashore yielded a small but suitably thick branch to weight down the end of the rope Thom skeptically produced from his pack for them. Fíli swung the end several times over his head, adjusting his grip as needed, and called out to his brother.

“Kíli! Head’s up, little brother! Tie this around you and then unhook your belt from Ruby! We’ll pull you across!”

Once more around and the branch went sailing, rope trailing behind from where it uncoiled at Thorin’s feet. The end was already anchored securely around the king’s compact frame, boots planted firmly upon the rock from which his race had been made. To the utter astonishment of the men, Kili’s quick hands darted up to snag the line from its neat arch directly above his head, proceeding to tie it around himself. The movements were reassuringly steady and fluid to the eyes of his watching kin, very aware that the youngest had not answered their query about injuries. Surely Ruby had kept him from further harm! A few last adjustments and Kíli urged his mount toward the water once more.

The current quickly separated the frantically swimming pony from her rider, rope going taut in the grasp of the men and dwarves as they steeled themselves to win this critical game of tug of war with nature’s fury. Unlike the rocky post Thorin had as anchor, the other three were upon slippery grass and mud, making the battle all the more exhausting. Mablung was the first to slip, landing hard in the mud with an oath before pulling himself back up even as Thom took his captain’s place upon the ground.

Fíli appeared unaware of his companions’ struggles, boots sunk to his calves in the mud as his lower center of gravity allowed him to avoid their fate, focus solely upon the precious life sputtering in the water on the end of the rope. The fight seemed to be never ending, for when they drew Kíli a bit further toward them, a slip of the hand or the need to bring the young dwarf out of the path of floating debris caused them to lose ground. Each time the dark head disappeared below the brown surface, Fíli let out a low moan, pulling with a renewed fire that Thorin and the men were hard pressed to match until Kíli was in sight once more, hand waving once to assure them he was well. At last, however, the bedraggled form was dragged up the bank by Fíli and Thorin, the two men collapsed unheeded behind them.

Kíli clung hard to his brother even as Thorin attempted to check on him, coughing devolving into bouts of vomiting that brought up foul brown water, Fíli’s return grip just as unbreakable. Their uncle had to settle for pulling soaked, tangled dark brown hair out of the path of the vomit, one hand lending support to the youngest’s heavy head and murmuring encouragement.

“Do not fight it so, Kíli, let the stuff come up.”

He knew his younger sister-son was trying to follow the advice, but the body instinctively fought, muscles spasming as involuntary tears streaked the red face. The torment ended so abruptly that his older brother almost failed to keep hold of the suddenly limp, exhausted form, Kili’s eyes barely open as he sagged in relief, fighting a new battle with unconsciousness. Fíli and Thorin guided him down to lay on his side, head pillowed in the blonde’s lap, hand rubbing at his little brother’s shoulder. Mablung appeared with a blanket to drape over the still shaking form.

“It's alright, I’ve got you. Just rest, Kíli.”

The elder’s soft urge produced a shake of the younger’s head, a stubborn spark returning to the brown gaze that met Thorin’s.

“NO!”

The barely intelligible croak exploded out of a face twisted in pain, throat no doubt feeling as if made of raw meat from the stomach acids that had just finished scouring it. One hand shot out to grab his uncle’s wrist, other coming up in shaky, half formed signs that were barely more intelligible.

‘Arrow. Pony. Danger.’

“You are safe now, Kíli.”

Thorin frowned, free hand swiping bangs back from Kili’s forehead to check for fever. None and the younger dwarf’s eyes were lucid, though exhaustion threatened to close the eyelids over them. A glance exchanged with Fíli showed that he, too, was at a loss to decipher the message his brother was so anxious for them to know, a rarity between these two whose bond was closer than that even between some sets of twins.

“Thom went to get his pony, if that’s what he’s on about. Saw her make shore a ways downstream.”

Mablung’s shadow cast over them, blocking the sun from Kili’s eyes as the man stepped closer, a piece of cloth now wrapping one hand where the rope must have bit into the skin. Unlike dwarves, men didn’t seem to routinely carry gloves unless they were farmers, a stupid oversight in Thorin’s opinion, for it was easy to prevent such damage. Kíli lost his battle finally, breathe evening out into deep slumber as Fíli tucked the blanket more securely around his brother.

“You will ride Ruby with him, Fíli.”

Thorin’s order was met with a nod, though he’d have only received an argument had any other arrangement been contemplated. His older nephew was completely focused on his sibling, body rocking rhythmically as Fíli hummed in the sleeper’s ear as if he cradled a dwarfling once more. Worry renewed in Thorin’s mind, for the actions evoked memories

of his father, Thrain, rocking the body of his younger brother, Frérin, when the painfully young prince had been killed in the last skirmish with orcs prior to the great battle outside the eastern gate of Moria. The older dwarf had been heedless of any who came near, even his own father and other son and daughter, eyes vacant and staring at a reality only he could perceive. It had passed with the morning light, though Thorin had not been surprised by its reported return upon the sight of Thrór’s severed head held triumphantly up by Azog only days later. In his own exhaustion, the king must not have masked his emotions as carefully as he usually did, for the blond broke off, flashing his uncle a strained smile.

“I’m fine, Thorin. Truly.”

“Hmm…” Thorin wasn’t willing to go quite that far, though giving the young one a concern other than his little brother would not hurt. “Do not think that I have forgotten you followed us. Such an action was not only risky, but foolhardy, for none would have known had you run into trouble. You also owe Glóin an apology for the concern you undoubtedly caused.”

Fíli tried a rueful smile, the effect slightly marred by the mud dripping off his mustache braids, forcing the dwarf to turn his head and spit or risk ingesting the gunk.

“I’ll have to wait until he exhausts his rather extensive vocabulary of curses first. I think the men were sharing some new ones with him the other night.”

Thorin, however, was not about to let the glib tongue of the other divert him.

“And you will deserve every one.”

A stern glare dissolved the cheeky grin on the blonde’s face, Fíli heaving a sigh as his arms tightened around a restless Kíli. Unlike the youngest of the impudent pair, Thorin’s rebukes rarely truly shamed the elder brother. There would be no ducked head or wounded eyes pleading for a single nod of approval out of this one, only a placid ‘yes, Thorin’ as the lesson was filed away, confidence quickly restored. Fíli had always been an old soul in a young one’s body, understanding too well at a tender age the weight that would one day fall upon his shoulders to lead their people.

“We have a problem.”

The tight words brought Thorin’s attention to Thom, the ranger walking up to them with Ruby though the man’s gaze darted around him, wary, free hand upon his sword hilt. The dwarf swiftly stood at that, though no one disturbed the quiet of the morning save themselves. Ruby, Thorin’s sharp eyes noted, was limping on one of her back feet.

“What is it?”

He and the ranger captain spoke as one, both slipping into the accustomed role of leader.

“The pony had an arrow in her hindquarters between the two packs, which is why we couldn’t see it from the bank. There are also tracks just up the bank by where I found the boy’s arrow, not belonging to a ranger and only hours old, probably just before I walked past. Blood, too.”

Breath was swiftly drawn in as the cryptic signs took on new meaning.

“Kíli must have shot back at whoever fired on him and Ruby. That’s why Thom found one of his arrows in the bank.”

Fíli’s words were met with a nod of agreement from Thorin. The young archer had wounded one, too, with a blind shot into the night, if the blood was any indication. The men both whistled in shock and growing respect as the same conclusion came to them. Fíli stood, then, hefting the taller dwarf in his arms with barely any perceivable strain, focused and serious.

“We can’t stay here.”

A quick gesture from the king stopped either man from protesting or offering the other assistance with his burden, for Fíli would likely not tolerate even Thorin’s aid at the moment. Given the situation, it was also best to utilize the younger dwarf’s strength, freeing the men to use their bows if danger threatened. The quintet set off without another word needing to be spoken, wary of the unknowns lurking around them.

No foe chose to impede their steps this day, however, a grinning Bofur greeting them cheerily back to camp after all were assured the form in Fíli’s arms only slept. It was none too soon for Thorin, either, for his exertions had renewed the throbbing in his head to the point where he wondered what precious metal was being mined up there, all his energy focused upon ensuring his own steps not falter and add to the burden of his companions. Thus, the king did not have the ability to object when his sister pressed him down upon a log near the fire, a bowl of thick stew thrust into his hands with an imperious order, “Eat!”

Dwalin sat down next to him, a glare warning any who came close to not interrupt his liege, only Bofur not sent scurrying. The toymaker was limping, but waved away any concern.

“’Tis nothin’ serious.”

“Good,” Thorin noted between mouthfuls, not his normally preferred breakfast, but the king was hardly likely to be picky today. “We need to break camp, someone shot at Kíli earlier.”

Dwalin scowled at that, but left his self-appointed post to begin assigning tasks, Bofur already seeing to the food without prompting. Soon, a small pile of articles deemed unnecessary were left to the side, packs adjusted so that all could walk easily with weapons readily to hand, for the two hale ponies would be needed to bear those incapable of the hike and Ruby could not bear more than her own weight. Mablung and Dwalin returned from different directions, meeting in front of the dwarf leader.

“We’ll need to put Kíli and Glóin on the ponies. Do we return to the road?”

The warrior had never been one for excessive words, once joking that his older brother Balin said enough for the both of them and then some. Thorin, however, read the true message easily.

“No, not with unknown enemies around. Can we cut north from here, captain?”

The others had noted the cluster of leadership, all drawing nearer save Fíli, who stood silent watch over his still sleeping brother. The ranger narrowed his eyes in thought before nodding agreement.

“Yes… It will not be easy, but there are paths known only to the rangers through the rocks of the Emyn Muil. The ponies will be able to pass as well. If we are fortunate, it was simply a passing remnant of Mordor’s forces that will trouble us no further, but if it is mercenaries, they will not find us easily, nor in a place we cannot defend.”

“Good.”

Thorin started to stand, only to have his head spin alarmingly at the motion, the steadying hands of Dis and Dwalin catching him before he could make an undignified meeting with the ground.

“You’d best ride on Mithril with Kíli, Thorin. Someone needs to hold him on, and you’d not last long walking with that concussion, don’t bother denying it.”

He glowered for a moment at Dis for the tart order, but this was one argument the older brother in him knew he had already lost, a careful tilt of the head conceding that fact wordlessly. He mounted his grey pony, and then took the still limp body passed up by Dwalin and Fíli, the blond dwarf grabbing a stirrup to stay as close as possible during the march.

The jostling did not produce any response from Kíli, a worrying prospect, though all knew the young dwarf slept hard and deep when pushed to exhaustion and there was as yet no sign of fever. That could still come, as Glóin and Dwalin were both already fighting the first signs of illness and others among their company were sure to follow suit in the coming days, though if colds were all they took away from a swim through water saturated with the filth of Mordor, they could count themselves blessed by Mahal indeed.

The next hours proved the true value of the aid that Faramir had sent them, for the boulder and cliff strewn landscape looked to be impassible without climbing ropes and much time to the gaze of any others. The rangers, however, simply pulled aside branches or ducked around rocks to lead to concealed pathways around the obstacles, and secure areas in which to rest. Of the five surviving rangers, Mablung and another led, with Dwalin, Bofur and Kifir behind them, then Glóin on the pack pony, Bongo, grumbling the entire time, Mithril with Thorin and Kíli, Fíli sticking stubbornly to his place beside them, Dis and Thom leading Ruby, and last, Nast and the other two rangers walking rear guard. It was close to the time that they would need to find a camp for the night when the dark head resting upon Thorin’s shoulder at last stirred.

“It’s all right, Kíli, I’m behind you. How are you feeling?”

Thorin whispered softly in the young one’s ear, not expecting a verbal response, though pleased when he received one.

“Tired.” There was an edge of bitterness to that, acknowledgement that his sister-son realized how long he’d already been asleep and was displeased with finding himself barely awake and craving more. “Is everyone else all right? Fíli?”

One hand immediately clapped Kili’s leg in response, the blond grinning when his brother looked down in surprise.

“Right here, brother, getting some exercise while you laze around with uncle as a pillow.”

The saucy answer elicited a roll of the eyes from the aforementioned uncle, but drew a laugh from the younger brother, a sound that had been sorely missed for too many days. Several of the others turned at the sound, smiles lighting up their own features upon seeing the younger prince displaying such emotion.

“You mean you’re finally walking off all that food you inhaled at the-“A long pause, then Kíli let out an exasperated breath, word apparently escaping him, “In the city. Between you and the hobbits, nothing edible was safe.”

“Hey!” Fíli protested in injured innocence, “Eating is necessary to rebuild strength after an injury, Thorin taught us that.”

Thorin snorted at the brat’s cheeky tossing around of serious lessons.

“Oh, no, you two leave me out of this or I’ll inform Dwalin you’ve volunteered for extra training, afraid you might prove too rusty.”

Another laugh from the younger brother drew a theatrical hand poised to Fíli’s breast.

“You wound me, uncle. That’s simply cruel, threatening an invalid with such things!”

Thorin reached down, two fingers tapping the top of the golden head.

“Who said it was merely a threat?”

The lead ranger signaled that they had reached a halting point, cutting off further retorts from either brother. They appeared to be facing a rock wall with thorny bushes growing against it until the rangers carefully bent back the barrier, revealing the entrance to a large cave, so high that Thorin needed only to duck slightly to enter still astride Mithril. An assessing glance around the interior showed that this must be a regular retreat for the Ithilien rangers, pallets lined along

the walls with blankets piled high, a spring at the rear to provide fresh water and even stacked firewood waiting next to the fire pit, Glóin already laying claim to the task of lighting it.

The king guided his mount to one of the pallets, Fíli and Dwalin catching the younger prince when Kíli managed to impatiently swing his leg over and start to slide down on his own. The young dwarf was quickly settled under a blanket, Dwalin returning to steady Thorin, whose head protested the abrupt change to standing as opposed to riding vigorously. He waved the other off once steady again, deciding that the ground at Kili’s side would serve admirably as a seat while keeping him out of the way of Bofur and Kifir already bustling to prepare a needed hot meal. His nephew also watched the activity, brow knitted, dark eyes once more roiling with turmoil.

“What is it?”

Thorin prompted in an attempt to forestall the clearly building return to brooding silence by the other. The brown gaze flicked to his uncle, then away guiltily.

“I’ve acted…badly, lately. Childish.”

The older dwarf felt like cheering at the hesitant, embarrassed admission marking a clear return of the Kíli they cherished. The other was waiting tensely for the rebuke he clearly anticipated he deserved, starting when Thorin smiled warmly instead, giving one arm an affectionate squeeze. Dwalin spoke for both older dwarves as he and Fíli dropped to the sandy floor next to them, the warrior wincing slightly as the action pulled on cracked ribs.

“No, lad, you’ve reacted as anyone would to such a situation, indeed, better than some I’ve seen facing much less serious wounds.” The pointed glare was met by an exasperated pursing of the king’s lips at the well-aimed blow. “Pain and uncertain recovery can make a moody dwarfling out of even the strongest of us.”

“Definitely.” Dis added as his sister, too, found a place upon the floor, amused at Thorin’s low growl of warning. “The two of you were away with a patrol the last time your uncle was injured. You missed a prime example of a royal tantrum.”

Blue eyes glittered with mischief and remembered irritation as she silently challenged him to deny the words. When he remained silent, she continued.

“My beloved brother neglected to inform anyone that a bandit’s arrow had caught his arm between the chain mail and vambrace, trying to tend the wound himself. He wasn’t able to thoroughly cleanse it, however, and infection set in along with a wound fever. Your uncle, being the stubborn dwarf he is, tried to insist upon getting up and working in the forge. He actually threw a plate at Balin when he told the fool to stay put.”

“Aye.” Dwalin’s grin turned wolfishly malicious at his old friend’s discomfort with the tale he could not truthfully deny, “’Tis where Balin got that lovely scar above his left eye.”

“Dinner!”

Bofur’s bright announcement was greeted with relief by the disgruntled king, face a bit red at the good-natured teasing he’d just taken, though he’d happily suffered through it for the relief shown upon Kili’s young face. The younger dwarf reached out, catching his uncle’s hand before Thorin could head for the fire, intending to retrieve stew for both of them.

“Thorin, I had this in my hand when I woke up out on that rock in the river.”

Held out in a slightly shaky palm was the Arkenstone, the faintest gleam shining deep in the stone.


	18. That Which was Hidden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dis reveals a few secrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

That Which Was Hidden 

Soon, the dwarves were all seated together, eating, the men on the other side of the cave in their own huddle. Judging the time as private as any they were likely to have, Thorin switched to Khuzdul, voice low, aware that it was seldom that outsiders even heard the language. 

“I saw the raven find you earlier, sister. What news from the mountain had you so worried?” 

“Trouble.” She spat the word angrily, catching the attention of all, young Kifir’s eyes widening when none moved to send him away. “Refugees have begun to arrive from the Iron Hills.” 

“Refugees? What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?” 

Glóin demanded in outrage, for the land mentioned had long been one of the two kingdoms of the Longbeards, Durin’s Folk, though they did not always act as one. 

“Fain has seized control with an army of Blacklocks and assorted exiles from other clans, according to what Vili and Nori were told by the first arrivals. Any who would not swear allegiance were summarily forced on their way with only the clothes upon their backs. They have not resorted to outright killing, at least not yet.” 

Outrage filled the air with tension, Dwalin’s fists clenching as his knuckle dusters added an ominous metallic punctuation to his words. 

“I told Dain no good would come of that one, but he ignored me.” 

The look Dis gave the large warrior, so long a faithful friend to the royal family, was sad. 

“No, he didn’t, Dwalin, but obviously some of those he trusted to keep Fain in check were corrupted by him instead. Balin and I long feared it would one day come to this.” 

“What do you mean, Mother?” 

Fíli asked, directly addressing her as he’d not done in days, brow furrowed in worry. Dis sighed, weighing her words as her older brother waited silently, certain her defenses had been breached at last, whatever trouble was underlying her odd behavior about to be voiced. There was no way she would refuse now to answer when asked by her eldest. 

“When I arrived at Erebor after…” Haunted eyes met those of her sons, Fíli’s finally softening, the ice cold indifference starting to crack, “After the battle, Balin drew me aside, deeply troubled. He told of what he saw of the orc that had…killed…Kíli-“ 

A sob cut off further words, hands reaching out to pull her youngest up into a tight embrace. Kíli tensed at first, listening intently to words whispered in his ear, then relaxing into it, nothing but heartfelt welcome for his mother’s treasured touch in his face now. The elder brother took a calming breath at that, having been tensed to intervene at the slightest hint of distress from his sibling, meeting his uncle’s deep blue eyes with a small nod. Kíli had always been as quick to forgive as to anger, moods often changing so quickly Thorin was left spluttering in the young one’s wake. 

When it became clear that Dis would not immediately continue, Fíli relented to Thorin’s silent question, for he had been the only other close enough to see what might have so concerned Balin. Eyes focusing inward with remarkable composure, he began to speak with the flat monotone that marked the words of a veteran coaxed to share the experience that most deeply traumatized them. 

“It was heavily armored and just appeared from nowhere, brutally hacking at any other who impeded it from reaching him, even its own kind. Kíli caught the first several blows, but then the brute used a move to slip through his guard that-“ 

The prince broke off, paling and looking to his mother in dawning horror as she moved her youngest around to lean back against her, both facing the others. The younger prince was regarding his brother in puzzled concern, showing no sign he recalled the events under discussion, Thorin noted with relief. As hard as it was on his nephew to deal with holes in his memory that was one incident Thorin devoutly prayed the other never recovered. 

“What was this move?” 

Dwalin broke the lengthy silence suspiciously even as one of Fíli’s hands moved at the same moment as Kili’s, grasping one another’s forearms in wordless reassurance, focus each solely upon the other. One arm firmly over her raven haired son’s shoulder and around his chest, Dis answered in place of her eldest. 

“Balin noted the same move you saw, Fíli, and recognized that it was not one used by our ancient foes. You had killed that one,” More like slaughtered in unbearable rage, Thorin mentally substituted for his sister’s bland words. “So he made sure to locate the body afterwards. It was no orc, but a dwarf from the Iron Hills dressed in false armor.” 

The discussion dissolved into shouted accusations, threats, and curses from all sides at that, the chaos drawing the alarmed attention of the nearby men, though none dared approach. 

“Enough!” 

Thorin’s roar in Westron cut through to cacophony easily, eliciting stunned silence, a pointed glare from their king reseating Dwalin, Fíli, and Glóin. Piercing blue eyes swept over the others to pin his sister with a command that she elaborate. 

“I presume you and Balin confronted Dain about this.” 

The king resumed his own seat, switching back to the secret language of the dwarves. His cousin could be a selfish, short-sighted ass, but Thorin had never suspected the other of harboring intents at kin slaying. 

“Of course we did.” The Princess of Erebor snapped back, and then collected herself. “It was not a…pleasant…conversation for any involved. Dain was outraged, but understood the position that we were in and appreciated Balin’s discretion.” 

She sent an apologetic half-smile at Dwalin, whose own thunderous countenance made it plain to all that his brother had not shared this council even with the warrior responsible for the safety of the royal family. Balin was lucky he was dead; Thorin thought uncharitably, for the other would’ve been hard pressed to mollify his younger sibling in the face of these revelations. 

“Dain told us then that this was one of the main reasons he’d initially refused aid to the quest, fearing that he’d unknowingly set an assassin at Thorin’s back. Apparently, his wife, Lady Dunla, was not killed by illness as we all thought but by an assassin’s poison meant for her husband. Young Thorin also ingested some, but little enough that Dain was able to get the dwarfling to a healer. His life was dearly bought, though, for the poison and antidote combined destroyed Stronghelm’s ability to sire children, putting in jeopardy the prophecy Balin and Dain both heard at the burial.” 

“That’s why Balin allowed Dain to invoke the old kinship laws upon you! Óin and I were outraged, thinking he’d taken complete leave of his senses!” 

Glóin burst in, face as red as his beard once was, as Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli all stiffened, shocked at the idea of such a thing being demanded of a dwarf who’d just lost all her remaining immediate family. Of old, those who ruled the dwarven clans had claimed the right to insist a kinswoman remarry to secure an heir to the throne, occasionally even ordering the current husband slain. Such an action was unheard of normally, for dwarves mated for life, only those regarded as the most wanton dallying with any other and only if they’d never married in the first place. It was this that had led to Dori’s reluctance to speak of family ties to Durin that would normally have engendered pride, for each of the brothers had a different father. The forcing of such an act, however, had not been practiced within Durin’s Line for centuries. 

“Who?” 

Fíli swallowed hard, pained eyes locked on his mother, who smiled in reassurance at her golden child. 

“Your uncle, Vili. It was the kindest choice Dain could have made, for he is much like your father. Most of the dwarves from Ered Luin were angry, but kept in check when it was obvious Mahal must bless the union. I bore twins, a boy and a girl, Therin and Lis. It was secretly understood between Dain, Balin, Stronghelm and I that Therin would be Stronghelm’s heir, but Fain must have had some hold over his cousin, for he would not discuss it with me prior to the delegation’s leaving. That’s why Vili suddenly decided to stay behind, fearing another attempt on one or both of the children. Their safety and the threat of war between the clans was why Dain eventually relented, allowing Balin to attempt to retake Moria, knowing none would dare raise a hand against the blood of Durin seated upon that throne, not even the Blacklocks and Ironfists. We were desperate.” 

“You could not have fostered the twins in the more remote parts of the Iron Hills as you led everyone to believe, then.” 

Glóin challenged his kinswoman belligerently, anger at being left from the inner councils clearly only kept at a simmer by the similar exclusion of Dwalin. Bofur, however, stirred restlessly, discretely scooting a little further away from his ill-tempered old companion. Dis’ arms tightened around Kíli, her other son now seated close by her side in distressed support, the past contention between them momentarily forgotten. 

“No. I sent them to the safest place I could think of- the Shire and Bilbo Baggins.” 

Thorin could not help noting the genius of that move; the peaceful land was protected by the Dúnedain, with Gandalf the Grey a frequent visitor to the very hole the twins would be staying in. It would have ensured a protection unavailable in Erebor, for Dain had never welcomed or trusted the wizard as Thorin had, and the hobbits themselves were wary of strangers. Once the children were regarded as a part of the community, they would have been shielded with a fierceness Thorin had to see to believe. Bilbo would’ve also taught the two well, even including an understanding of elves sorely lacking among dwarves, the king grudgingly acknowledged. 

“Frodo and the others in the Shire were told they were Bombur’s children, an idea reinforced by sending Bofur through the Shire on the trade routes to discretely check on them. Anyone watching would have expected that task to be entrusted only to Dwalin had they been my children.” 

Thorin noted Bofur’s immediate wince away from the fierce glare turned on him by Dwalin with amusement, the reason for the toymaker’s discrete scramble out of the warrior’s reach now clear. 

“It could not have been Fain and Oain behind all that!” 

Dwalin’s eyes flashed, anger still sharp at the mere idea that a dwarf would hurt a member of the family he’d spent his life protecting. Dis smiled grimly at her brother’s oldest friend. 

“Nor were they even born when Dain’s wife died. Balin and I, and Dain, too, believed that they are fronts, puppets used by someone who has remained hidden in the shadows. That’s one reason we have only kept close watch upon them until now. With Stronghelm dead, our true adversary may at last be ready to move openly.” 

“While we sit in the wilds, far from protection and having already lost two of our number to a seemingly natural event.” 

Kíli spoke for the first time, suspicion darkening the face of his youngest- no, younger sister-son. The idea that he had another sister-son would take time for Thorin to get used to. None could argue the odd coincidence of the water flooding at that exact moment, though the king could not conceive of how anyone could have contrived such a trap short of powerful magic. It was far safer to suspect everything at the moment than be caught off guard by a cunning enemy. Dwalin fingered his axes, war hammer lying at his feet, a nasty eagerness to his eyes. 

“Aye, just wait until I can get one of them in range of my ax, they’ll not be a threat for long!” 

By the fire in Glóin’s eyes, he agreed wholeheartedly with the sentiments of his cousin, nor could Thorin disagree, the horrific scene of Kili’s murder replaying over and over in his head. All sat in silence, none willing to leave the small gathering, until the sober mood was abruptly broken by Fíli. 

“The twins would be what…seventy-five?” 

The oldest prince inquired lightly, mischievous grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. At Dis’ nod, he turned a full smirk upon his barely seventy-five year old younger brother. 

“Sorry, Kíli, you’re still the baby!” 

“You can’t compare my age by the Khazad calendar and theirs by the calendar of Men, you dolt!” 

The younger dwarf objected, rolling his eyes at the blonde. The dwarves went by a lunar cycle, adding in an extra month every four years, which created havoc when attempting to translate ages. Fíli, however, grinned back. 

“That is by our calendar, little brother!” 

“He’s right.” Dis added, giving her youngest a sympathetic smile. “By Gondor’s calendar, they turned seventy-seven five months ago, which you had reached on Durin’s Day, right before the Battle of the Five Armies. They’re still older.” 

Fíli began chortling at his mother’s words, pointing at Kili’s flabbergasted expression, which earned a shove from the victim that quickly devolved into a tangled wrestling match, other dwarves scrambling out of the way. Thorin neglected to take the two to task even at Glóin’s pointed scowl, amused; it was the first time other than the water dousing that Fíli had treated his brother as anything other than the most delicate of spun glass.


	19. Whispers in the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which dwarves talk instead of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

Whispers in the Night 

Thorin sat staring into the flickering fire several hours later, unable to sleep despite the exhaustion of the trials of the last two days weighing on him. In his mind, all he could see was the chaos of that fateful battle before the walls of Erebor, foes closing in as first one wound then another began to sap his strength, threatening to leave him that critical second too slow. Fíli and Kíli had begun the fight standing with him, Dwalin upon his other side, but the rage of the orcs and wargs had swept them apart some time ago. Arrows flew, deadly to friend and foe alike, steel glinting in the fading sun, screams and the clash of weaponry a never ending din drumming upon his ears, and still they came, filthy, twisted creatures never meant to walk Middle Earth. It was the absolute gut wrenching raw wail that brought his attention to the side, to see a sight that would be burned eternally onto his soul. 

Kíli, his bright, energetic, cheeky sister-son, the raven haired bundle that was one half of the pair that had their Uncle Thorin wrapped around their stubby dwarf fingers since the days of their births, slid to the ground, foul orc blade through his chest, eyes already glassy in death. Fíli, his responsible, mischievous, loyal, also cheeky sister-son, the golden other half, screamed his heart out as he ran, ignoring the arrow that materialized in his own shoulder, to slam into the one who’d just taken his brother’s life. Thorin had managed to decapitate the one who sought Fíli’s unprotected back, at least, dark blood glinting almost red upon his blade as he saw the blonde grab his brother’s body tightly. 

It was the last glimpse Thorin would have of the pair, for he soon had other foes to occupy him, falling slowly to the blood soaked ground as the last rays of the setting sun bathed the field in golden light and the battle around him waned with it. He knew, with a dread certainty, that Fíli lay now beside his brother, bond forged in life unable to be broken for long even by death. The two who had lightened his bitterness, reminded a stern king that there was more to life than responsibility and cold unfeeling, were gone, words of the pride and love of an uncle for those who he saw as sons forever unspoken due to his own blind stubbornness. Thorin knew, with an odd welcome, that he would soon join his sister-sons, even as he heard Dwalin’s hoarse bellow for a healer. Soon he would stand within the Halls of Waiting, to be- 

“Thorin.” 

The soft voice broke the king from the overwhelming memories with a gasp, eyes darting around to assess his surroundings before following the source of the call to one of the pallets lining the walls of the ranger’s cavern. Kíli was up on one elbow, dark eyes regarding him with concern. Swiftly, Thorin moved past the other sleepers, waving a dismissive hand to the ranger who’d turned from his guard post near the mouth of the cavern at the footfalls. 

“What is it?” 

He asked the young one softly. 

Kíli was silent for a long moment, brow furrowed as he searched for the word he required, and then appeared to give up. 

“I need to…” 

A vague wave of one hand toward the cave mouth was indeed explanation enough, the older dwarf aiding his nephew to swing legs around and stand, one crutch under an arm and the other arm about Thorin’s shoulders. Briefly, the king considered swinging the other up into his arms, but decided quickly that it was better to allow Kíli to do what he thought he could. 

“Can you make the bushes outside?” 

The uncle, and surrogate father, in him would not allow the question to go unasked. His answer was a grimace and nod, so they set out, pace slow, but already infinitely improved from his bare crawl of three days ago. Kíli, always thin for a dwarf, could easily be mistaken for a youth of Men at the moment, fevers having burned any excess flesh from his frame. Thankfully, the rangers had been able to completely replace the supplies lost to the river, so they were not upon short rations, not that Kíli could be coaxed to eat much anyway. 

The younger dwarf was also able to keep his feet with just the one crutch after they rounded a tree, so Thorin discretely backed off, allowing the other his privacy. At least until the snap of a branch, anyway. Instantly, he darted to the side of his unarmed nephew, Orcrist sweeping from the scabbard upon his back, thankful he’d not yet taken the great blade off to sleep. Only seconds later, the ranger joined them, keen eyes sweeping the forest, arrow to bow. 

“Take him back to the cave, I will cover you.” 

At the whispered words from the man, Thorin sheathed the blade, sweeping Kíli from his shaky feet as easily as if he yet carried a dwarfling, ignoring the renewed flair of pain from the elbow injured in the flooding. His nephew knew better than to utter a protest, several clomping strides returning them both to the shelter where Fíli stood, one of his blades drawn. Thorin set his younger sister-son down inside and retrieved his other crutch, then returned to the elder’s side, unsurprised to find the other had woken at his brother’s shuffling steps out. 

“The ranger?” 

“Scouting.” Fíli glanced over his shoulder, blue eyes tracking his brother’s slow progress the few steps back to his pallet-and his bow. “Did you see anything?” 

“No.” 

Thorin pulled Orcrist once more, both dwarves relaxing slightly at the sight of the dull metal, no hint of blue showing. At least one servant of the dark was ruled out as the source of the sounds, though it was entirely possible the dwarf king had just retreated from the hazards of a squirrel. The tense wait lasted several minutes, the man appearing from between the shadows as stealthily as any elf, waving them inside and replacing the thorny barrier to their hiding spot before speaking. 

“That was no animal, but I was not able to risk getting close enough to tell more than that.” 

The king nodded, a silent tilt of the head ordering Fíli to carefully douse the flames even though the fire was hidden from the cave entrance by a natural bend in the rock wall. Far better to be chilly this night than bring foes down upon themselves, even though several of the others tossed restlessly with low fevers. The younger dwarf wordlessly carried out his task then returned to sit next to his brother in the sudden darkness, only the shielded lantern by Kíli now giving any guidance to prevent treading upon those who slept on the floor. Fíli, of course, had his bedroll on the floor directly beside his brother’s slightly raised bed. The other four pallets had been given to Thorin, Dis, Glóin, and Dwalin, either due to the beginnings of illness or injuries, or both, in Dwalin’s case. 

Fíli was quickly asleep once more, but Kili’s eyes glittered in the faint light of the lantern and Thorin sighed, making his way over to his younger sister-son, who made room for him on the narrow pallet. 

“What if I never fully recover?” 

It had been the unspoken question haunting them all, but there was a certain relief in it finally being voiced. With the return of Erebor to their control, the harsh choices sometimes necessary in their exile were no longer a concern, but that did not negate the issue, for dwarven culture greatly valued strength in their rulers. That was why Thrór had risked all by leading the dwarven forces at Moria, why it had been unavoidable that Thorin take his sister-sons with him to aid in reclaiming Erebor, and why Kíli brooded so. He would not be seen as a proper leader of their people, despite his valor and past sacrifices in battle, nor could that be changed by the dazzling light display of a hunk of crystal, no matter how valued. Thorin sat in long silence, mind racing to find something other than meaningless platitudes. 

“Do not allow yourself to linger on what has not come to pass, Kíli. Your strength returns daily, and the other problems may be overcome. You did not see Bifur regarded as less than the others due to his inability to be understood.” 

“He was not one of your heirs.” Kíli bitterly pointed out, darkness lurking in the normally bright eyes, “One hour I am fine, able to remember words with ease, and the next- I-“ 

A low growl of frustration welled up, one hand slamming against the rock wall. Thorin quickly intercepted the fist before it could strike a second time, the other hand snaking around to the back of Kili’s neck, gently urging the head down onto his shoulder. He could feel tears dropping silently from his nephew’s face onto the thin material of his tunic and let go of the other’s still clenched fist, arms folding the young one in a warm embrace. The uncle lowered his head until his lips touched Kili’s ear, words barely audible. 

“The anger is natural, Kíli, it is alright. Allow yourself to feel, do not shut yourself off so from your family.” 

“You should take Therin as the next heir over me. I am no prince of Durin.” 

That bit of nonsense almost snapped the thin control Thorin had been using all evening to throttle his temper. As it was, he stiffened, arms becoming steel bars to trap his nephew when the other tried to pull away. The gentle voice became an angry hiss in Kili’s ear. 

“I will never again hear such words from you, nephew! You are of Durin’s blood; you have already proven that many times! Am I clear?!” 

A hesitant nod that froze as another voice spoke from the darkness beside them. 

“You’d better regard that as an order from me, as well. I won’t repeat what I know Mother would say to such stupidity.” 

Thorin moved his foot resting upon the floor to nudge his older nephew. 

“Go back to sleep, Fíli. I will take care of your brother.” 

“I’m sorry.” Kíli muttered into his shoulder. “I don’t- My control is- I don’t understand what is wrong with me.” 

Unfortunately, Thorin knew all too well. 

“The healers call it ‘soldier’s heart’ or ‘battle trauma’. It is a reaction some have to such traumatic events, especially those who feel life passionately, as you do; I have seen it before. Aragorn and I discussed the signs you were showing before we left, but you were not in a state to heed my words. There will be times when unexplained feelings, even fears, surge within, no matter how irrational at the moment. When you feel overwhelmed, you must seek out one of us- your mother, me, Fíli, Dwalin, Bofur, even Glóin, whomever you feel comfortable with speaking to. We will aid you through this, Kíli.” 

They sat in silence for some time, Thorin unwilling to push his nephew until Kíli made a move once more to pull away, this time his uncle allowing it. 

“Uncle?” 

At the familial title, Thorin relaxed, knowing at least part of what he’d told his nephew had gotten through to him. 

“Yes?” 

The one word held a hint of the old impatience from when two young dwarflings would attempt to delay bedtime with questions and requests. A soft, halfhearted laugh came from the younger dwarf at the familiar tone, a snort from the floor indicating the older one had caught it as well. Thorin gave the brat another nudge with his foot in a clear signal to stay out of it, which only succeeded in turning the snort to full, though soft, laughter. Kili’s next words, however, quickly sobered both of them. 

“The prophecy said you would lead our people to reclaim the ancient kingdoms.” 

“It did.” 

Thorin agreed, wondering what was now darting through that quicksilver mind. 

“We’ve already taken back Erebor.” 

“We have.” 

So that was where this was going. He bit back a sigh of frustration, once again heartily wishing that damn stone had never been pulled from within the mountain. 

“That only leaves one of our ancient kingdoms unclaimed.” 

There was apprehension in Kili’s hesitant statement, as well there should be given the stories the younger dwarf had grown up hearing, and the family they’d lost on that dark doorstep. Thorin had already considered attempting to ignore the whole thing, unwilling to ask yet more death and war of his people, but he knew in his heart that this path was as inevitable as the one he’d set out upon that spring day in the Shire. Even with the reported slaying of Durin’s Bane by Gandalf, the darkness lurking in those caverns would not be easily dispelled nor would he embark upon that path until he was certain that the Lonely Mountain was secure. Just as he was certain his nephew had fallen asleep, another, scared whisper came from the darkness. 

“There was a crown above my head. That could only happen if Fíli died.” 

Thorin had to bite back another sharp retort, cursing the Arkenstone once more. 

“We do not know what such a thing truly means, Kíli. Do not borrow trouble we’ve yet to see.” 

Though Kíli said nothing more, it was late into the darkest hours of the night before Thorin at last found rest. The hours that passed just before the dawn. 

There were coughs and low murmured conversations around the cave when Thorin awoke, light shining in through the thorn bushes at the entrance. As he moved to sit up, his head gave a warning lurch, and he closed his eyes, settling for propping himself on an elbow. Almost instantly, a cough worked its way up out of his lungs, momentarily centering his attention on nothing else, a presence at his side and a hand on his forehead startling. Watery eyes reopened to meet his sister’s knowing gaze. 

“Here, eat as much of this as you can. Your fever is low, thank Mahal. We feared the worst when you did not wake earlier.” 

That was not a good sign. With a slightly shaky hand, he pushed himself partially upright and accepted the bowl. 

“How many are ill?” 

He immediately asked, trying to see around Dis’ form to the rest of the company and almost spilling the soup she’d handed him. 

“Only Kifir has escaped completely, though I’ve no more than a stuffy head, probably because we spent the least amount of time in the water. None are serious, but I’ve already spoken with Mablung about staying here for a few days.” 

If the others felt a fraction of how badly he did, they’d be lucky to stand right now, let alone travel far. 

“Kíli?” 

The last thing that his nephew needed at the moment was to become ill once more! Dis’ smile was strained as her eyes drifted to the two pallets further along the wall. 

“A light fever and no appetite, again. I’m more concerned with Fíli, truthfully. He is burning hot and coughs harshly, a rattling in his chest, yet still insists upon trying to fuss over his brother. Nor will he tolerate my aid.” 

The king winced, though he’d actually have been astonished had Fíli been suddenly cooperative. It would take more than yesterday’s revelations, Thorin was certain, before Fíli was completely at ease with Dis once more, but he had always been alike to his uncle in that. The dwarf king would not only hold a grudge until the object of his anger was dead, he would return for a yearly celebration upon the grave! The others had picked up quite clearly upon the tension between mother and son, though of them, only Dwalin knew the full extent of the feud. 

“If you feel up to it, I could use your aid with him.” 

Thorin nodded, too busy eating the meaty soup she gave him to verbally respond. It was only as he scraped the bottom of the bowl that he again spoke. 

“What of the noises we heard last night?” 

“Ill shod horses and eight riders, though we could not tell more.” The ranger captain approached them as he answered, demeanor grim. “Dwalin and I have spoken; we’d prefer they were well away from here before we risk moving again.” 

Thorin snorted, unsurprised by that. His old friend must have been as deeply shaken by Dis’ revelations last night as he was. There had long been rivalries between the dwarf clans, and even wars in the past, but nothing recently. Four of the six other kingdoms had answered Thrór’s call for aid to retake Moria, and all had sent representatives to the ill-fated meeting in Ered Luin just before Thorin began the quest. To cold-bloodedly plan the murder of a member of the royal dynasty of Durin… If the dwarves could be said to have a high king over all, the descendants of eldest of the Dwarf Fathers would qualify. There would be no mercy shown to any associated with such a heinous act, swift death in battle the best that the traitors could hope for, even from those not of Durin’s Folk. There was little that those with nothing left to lose would not dare.


	20. A Power Never Known

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the dwarves struggle to hide from their enemy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

A Power Never Known 

“Cheer up, little brother; at least you won’t have to worry about being dropped on your head this time!” 

The teasing remark from Fíli brought Thorin’s attention to the three in front of him as they topped the rise, two walking and one seated upon Ruby. Before them lay the dark smudges that would soon darken into the forests of Mirkwood upon the right and Lothlorien to their left, land once more familiar to many within the party. It would be a relief not to be forced to rely on outsiders, even those as trustworthy as the rangers had proven to be. The men had left them just this morning at Gondor’s northern border marker after a further week of travel, taking with them the sincere thanks of the dwarf king, their skills and hidden paths having made up much of the time lost to the flooding and resulting sickness. 

That unintentional delay of five days in the cave before all were well enough to travel once more had benefited them in one way, at least. With the little red pony able to bear a rider again, Kíli had returned to her saddle, no longer bound by the belt, leaving Mithril and Bongo free to be used for what baggage remained. This, in turn, freed the walkers of an additional burden, though dwarves easily carried equal their own weight or more when they must. 

There had been little else good about those days. Sick dwarves tripping over one another, coughing keeping each other awake, all stuck in a cramped cave…it might be recommended as a new form of torture! The rangers, healthy cowards all, had been too eager to volunteer for scouting and hunting duties outside the cavern walls, even cheerfully accepting wood gathering duty! Their freedom had become a rather sore spot for the feverish dwarves, especially Glóin, Nast, and Dwalin, who persisted in making verbal jabs at the men given any opportunity. 

At least, until old Thom had snapped back that none of the men caught by the waters had survived, so the mighty warriors of the dwarves should shut up and be glad they’d only sniffles! This had engendered hard feelings and tension thick enough to see for several days, not the environment in which one wished to recuperate. All had consequently greeted a return to travel with relief, even when it meant narrow paths, days of walking, and endless camp chores that exhausted bodies were reluctant to do. 

The whole mess had at last forced Fíli to allow his mother to tend not only him, but his younger brother as well, though grudgingly. Looking to where his sister now walked just ahead of him, Thorin could not help recalling the confrontation he’d overheard between the two late in the second day of their confinement. 

Fíli had always been a very controlled personality, only truly allowing his guard to lax with his younger brother, otherwise extremely conscious of his role as Thorin’s heir and the weight that went with it. There were two circumstances, however, that would involuntarily loosen his elder nephew’s tongue- being very drunk (an extreme rarity) and when fevered, as now. Dis had been aiding her half-awake eldest to drink some broth, all that he’d been able to keep down, when Fíli asked the question that started it. 

“Where are the twins now, still in the Shire?” 

“No.” The dwarf king could hear the warmth and relief in his sister’s voice that Fíli would ask about his newly gained siblings. “When Bilbo left the Shire eighteen years ago to settle in Rivendell, they returned to Erebor. We- foolishly – believed the worst danger to be past, as there had not been even a rumor of attempts on their lives for several years. Then, when the messenger of Mordor arrived at the mountain, we dared not send them abroad. Their father is watching over them at Erebor, though I cannot help worrying-“ 

Fíli snorted derisively at that. 

“You didn’t seem all that worried over Kíli back in Minas Tirith! Do you know that he tried to tell Uncle to make Therin his next heir over him? He thinks you replaced us.” 

Thorin had almost groaned at that, but knew that if he were to intervene now, this might never be resolved. At least, not without bloodshed. Dis, however, seemed to have a firm grasp upon herself, not rising to the provocation. 

“You are ill, not thinking straight, and I am not having this conversation with you right now, Fíli.” Had she left it there, her son may have allowed the talk to lapse, but his sister was not known for her interpersonal skills. “All of you are my children and I love you equally-“ 

“Now you lie to yourself, Mother. You’ve always pushed me toward Thorin, urging more training and trips, while keeping Kíli close to you. You hated that Kíli chose to go with me on the quest, probably blamed me for letting him get killed.” 

The flush of red to Dis’ face clearly revealed how close to the mark that one was, though Thorin could not blame her for grief-stricken anger. She’d most likely cursed his name loud and long before entertaining any such dark thoughts about her eldest. The princess’ face quickly turned white at her son’s next words, however. 

“I could always see the resentment when he chose my company over yours!” 

Now the young one’s tongue was giving voice to his own darkest fears and nightmares, obviously more fevered then Thorin had thought. He struggled to raise himself, intervene before this could completely destroy the relationship between mother and son, but a hand upon his shoulder kept him down. 

“Let them fight. This is long overdue, and Dis knows how ill Fíli is. She will ignore his wilder statements.” 

Dwalin was perhaps the only dwarf alive that could have made such a request and had the other listen to him, though with misgivings. Then, the warrior had been by the side of the princess through all the intervening years, had watched the changes that Thorin was just beginning to understand. Still, the heat in Dis’ voice as she answered her son almost caused her brother to thrust his friend aside anyway. 

“Don’t you dare say such things to me! Yes, I was angry, but not that you’d taken Kíli with you. I was livid that either one of you felt the need to blindly follow your uncle’s stupid obsession!” Thorin winced, causing Dwalin to smirk slightly. “I wanted you both safe and whole with me in the Blue Mountains, not in a prince’s tomb under that overgrown hunk of rock, no matter how ‘worthy’ everyone insisted your deaths were! Tell me, how is it an ‘honor’ and ‘worthy’ that a mother must bury her children? And to have you back only to face such a nightmare once more within mere hours...” The anger bled from her tone, leaving only sorrowful regret. “I was not strong enough, Fíli, and in that, I failed both of you. I am sorry.” 

Thorin’s breath caught at those three simple words spoken so sincerely, eyes slipping closed in relief. Unlike Fíli and Thorin, who went cold and silent in anger, the easiest way to secure the truth from either Dis or Kíli had always been to anger them. One had to be strong enough to withstand those opinions being hurled at full volume and in the most unpleasant of terms, however, until the core feelings bled through, as they did now. 

“Thorin, look.” 

Dwalin’s hand had aided his friend to sit up enough to see the two past his feet as mother and son embraced, the first step along the road to reconciliation for them. That had been an immense relief for the dwarf king, as of them all, the older prince had taken the longest to recover, cough stubbornly hanging on for several days after the others were at least able to rest. 

Kifir, the only dwarf not to fall ill, had taken to staying near Fíli and Kíli during the time in the cave, wary of the tempers of his elders, even Bofur. Kíli had welcomed him as a needed distraction from worry over his older sibling, treating him as a younger brother and not a pesky child, Fíli willingly following suit when well enough. Even back on the road, the three still chose to travel together, Fíli’s golden laughter a welcome sound that could even coax smiles out of a still moody Kíli. Just now, curiosity caught by the odd comment drifting back on the wind, Thorin sped up his pace to listen, wondering what had sparked Fíli’s gleeful teasing this time. 

“He was dropped on his head? You mean when he was a baby, like Gimli?” 

Kifir’s astonished question held more than a hint of hero worship in his tone, the youngster proud to be accepted by the two he’d been named for. Fíli clapped him on the shoulder, but his blonde head was tilted up to look at the brunette above them. 

“Heard about that, did you? No, no one dropped Kíli as a child; Mother didn’t trust Oin’s fumble fingers. I was referring to the spiders in Mirkwood; they caused us a bit of trouble the last time we passed through there.” 

“That was more than a bit of trouble, Fíli!” 

Kíli objected, gazing down at his brother in annoyance, though Thorin was grateful to hear no hesitation in his younger nephew’s rejoinder. Though he still required the aid of crutches to walk, and tired appallingly easily, Kíli continued to recover, memory and words often only needing a prompt from Fíli now to fall back into place. 

“What happened?” 

The youngest dwarf prompted breathlessly, gaze switching between the older two in fascination. Obviously, this was the cue that his older nephew had been waiting for, voice deepening dramatically as he began his story, words painting a picture so real that Thorin almost found himself drawn back in memory with them. 

“It all began on the road through the dim reaches of Mirkwood; trees gnarled and old, air hanging so heavily that at times is became a struggle simply to breathe…” 

As Thorin listened, bemused, the other former members of the company began to interject their own views, debate erupting over the smallest details. Fíli and Kíli, having the most recent memories of the true events, soon found themselves as judges rather than tale spinners. The king decided not to intervene even as voices rose to shouting between Glóin and Bofur. With the wide open terrain, they’d see anyone coming long before the debate could be heard, and there had been no more sign of the mysterious riders after that first night in the cave. 

Instead, he found himself pondering the words of Frodo as the rescue by an invisible Bilbo Baggins was enthusiastically recounted. The hobbit had used the ring, revealing its existence to the company for the first time, but none of them had the time to question the unusual secretiveness of their burglar, too distracted by spiders and then the wood elves. After, however… 

Why had he not noted the uncharacteristic possessiveness of Bilbo about the thing? Was he already so caught by covetousness that he could not recognize a similar affliction plaguing one of a race not prone to it? Invisibility, the odd behavior of the hobbit, even the plainness of such a powerful artifact should have set off warnings! He knew the old lore, taught to him by his grandfather so many long years ago in Erebor as he held Thrór’s own ring of power in his hand, not knowing the thing was already the architect of their kingdom’s fall. 

The most powerful of the seven, it was the last still held by one of the Dwarf Lords, the others already lost to Sauron’s servants or dragon’s fire. The Rings of Power were never meant for the hand of one of the children of Mahal that much was now clear. Made by an elf assisted by Sauron, and originally meant for elven bearers, the use of the seven by dwarves had been a failure from the beginning. 

The dwarf lords had proven resistant to the corruption of the rings, never able to use them to enter the world of the wraiths, voluntarily or involuntarily, as the men had. Instead, partially protected by the strength of the earth from which they were made, the dwarves used the rings to sense where the deepest, richest veins of ores and precious metals ran, and where the largest deposits of gemstones hid. These made them wealthy beyond telling, but also awoke within the Gold Sickness, calling out to other beings with the same desires, such as the orcs and the great wyrms of the north. 

None knew what had become of the last of the seven, taken from Thrór’s corpse by Thrain in the midst of battle and disappearing with him at Azanulbizar. Truthfully, Thorin had not spent overly long searching for the thing, repulsed by the madness he’d seen in Thrór’s actions, and correctly blaming the rise of the Gold Sickness in his grandfather to the influence of the ring. 

A warmth, a…reassurance? 

Broken from his dark broodings, Thorin looked down in shock to note that his marked hand now rested within the repaired leather pouch holding the Arkenstone, a glow visible between his fingers. This…this was a power meant for the race made long ago of rock, metal, and fire, even as those same forces had shaped the gem. Thorin could sense the deep connection to the earth, the steadiness of the thing, but knew it was not his to command. The Arkenstone would lend him power as needed, but there was a feeling of waiting, anticipation, to the stone that made its current bearer exceedingly wary. 

His eyes lifted to the dark head thrown back in free, open laughter riding ahead of him, golden one keeping pace at the other’s knee also shaking with mirth. How much more dare he ask them to bear? Had he a choice? It was not a thought that made for ease in the mind as they marched. At last, they found a stopping point for the night, all looking to him for assigned tasks, a familiar role he embraced to ease the growing fears plaguing him. 

“Dis, Kifir, supper. Glóin, the fire, please. Bofur-“ 

“Aye, I know, first watch. Some things don’t change!” 

The toymaker tossed him a wicked smile as everyone else laughed. Thorin stared at his former companion for a long moment, daring the dwarf to add to his comments, but Bofur apparently still knew just how far he could push the other’s temper. 

“Yes, then Nast, me, and Dwalin. Glóin and Dis, you will trade out with two of the watch tomorrow night.” 

“What about us? I can watch with Fíli!” 

For the first time, there was true stubborn indignation in Kili’s demand, dark eyes flashing at his uncle. Fíli, who’d already begun unloading and caring for the ponies without prompting, looked up and nodded. 

“I can certainly stand a watch, Thorin.” 

“No. Neither of you will take watches during this journey.” 

Thorin made his tone as flat as possible, signaling that the discussion was at an end, but Kíli stepped to confront him anyway. At least the younger brother lowered his voice so that the entire camp would not hear the impending argument as the older brother joined them. 

“This is no different than the journey to Erebor, Fíli and I will do our share! You are taking a watch!” 

There was such vulnerability there that Thorin cursed under his breath, mind scrambling to find a way to end this without giving his true reasons. Kíli would not be dissuaded without an answer now, certain that his uncle did, in fact, view him as unworthy of being a prince. 

“No, you still need rest, Kíli, you tire too easily.” 

That, at least, was certainly true enough. Even now, the crutches wobbled a tiny bit as the younger prince battled back growing fatigue. The other, however… Thorin grasped the first plausible thought to cross his mind. 

“And Fíli, you are still recovering from that fever.” 

“Uncle…” 

The blonde allowed a hint of exasperation to color his tone, letting Thorin know the latter excuse would not hold. Frustrated, his temper slipped, blue eyes turning glacial. 

“I have made my decision; it is not up for debate. Fíli, finish with the ponies. Kíli, do your exercises.” Thorin’s eyes softened and he pulled the leather pouch from his belt, holding it out to the younger prince. “You may take responsibility for this as you so ably retrieved it from the river, now go!” 

At least the two knew better than to continue arguing, though it took a firm hand tugging on the younger’s shoulder for the older brother to draw him away. The offer of carrying the Arkenstone would not divert the dark-haired prince for long, but would underline the trust his uncle placed upon him. It was all that Thorin had to offer at the moment, for he could not allow the two to take watches. 

“Liar.” 

The soft whisper in his ear spun the king around before his mind identified the voice, rebuke going unspoken as he settled for rolling his eyes at his oldest friend. Dwalin leaned on his war hammer, regarding him thoughtfully. 

“Why did you tell them no?” He tilted his massive head in the direction of the princes, “The real reason.” 

Thorin took a long moment before he decided to answer, knowing the warrior would not thank him for making the job of protecting the royal family harder. Of them all, Dwalin alone needed to know even this secret. 

“Fear.” The warrior jerked back, then peered intently at him with narrowed eyes, Thorin allowing his mask to fall slightly, feelings bleeding through. “I fear for their safety, on the edge of camp with no other awake.” 

“Why? What is it that makes you worry for them, but not yourself?” 

There was a subtle rebuke in the words that pulled a small smile from the king before he sobered, eyes reflecting the horror of the past. 

“There was another assassin upon the field before Erebor, Dwalin, and it was not my blood he sought to spill.” 

Dwalin muttered a curse in Khuzdul, eyes darting around the perimeter of the camp before settling upon the brothers beside the ponies. 

“You’re certain?” 

“Enough that I will take no risks. It is bad enough that only Kíli travels mounted, easily seen.” 

“But why? They are your heirs, not the king.” 

“I do not know!” Thorin snapped out of sheer frustration before glancing away, reigning in that Durin fire once more. “I think… Dwalin, we both know that Durin’s throne is not in Erebor.” 

“Do they know?” Dwalin’s eyes still tracked the two princes, Kíli now carefully being coached through exercises to strengthen his legs by his brother. 

“Both suspect, I’m certain, but it has not been discussed. Too many ears not our own around. Tell Fíli not to allow Kíli out of his sight. He won’t question such an order from you.” 

Somehow, Thorin doubted either prince would be let out of Dwalin’s sight for some time to come, which was exactly as he’d intended. Indeed, the next day presented a slight alteration even in the order of their walking. Kíli, with the inevitable Fíli close by, had been in the middle of their line from the start, protected due to weakness and injury, but now Dwalin had allowed Nast to take up rear guard, stationing himself directly behind the princes, with Thorin beside him, a position that allowed the gruff warrior to stay within reach of all his charges. Thorin raised an amused eyebrow at his old friend, but a glower cut off any objection he might have thought to offer, not that he would anyway. 

Once again, the brothers began telling Kifir of the quest, having reached the events of Thranduil’s palace and the inglorious escape by barrel. Thorin grimaced; glad they not quite reached the crossroads where they were to meet Legolas and Gimli as he heard a distinctly aggrieved huff from the warrior walking beside him. Ahead of them, he could only imagine the expression worn by Glóin, hearing the thunderous thud of the ax handle impacting the ground at each step of his distant cousin. There was no need to toss his son’s friendship with the same elf’s son in his face, a conclusion the princes had evidently also reached as they hurried through to the river escape. 

Kili’s laughter once more rang out, lightening Thorin’s own mood, as the younger brother jolted his body this way and that upon Ruby’s saddle, obviously reenacting that wild ride through the rapids. It was heartening to see the spark return to his eyes, but if he weren’t careful, he might just rock himself right out of Ruby’s saddle! Thorin was about to call out a caution to the young fool before he became too carried away when the object of his concern threw back his head, back arching, feet kicking his mount, causing the pony to neigh in protest. Next to Ruby, Fíli stumbled at almost the exact same moment, and Thorin’s shocked mind at last registered multiple black arrows sticking out of both his sister-sons’ backs.


	21. Some Kind We Never Forgive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a battle ensues, the return of Oain, and Legolas is a bit too truthful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

21\. Some Kind We Never Forgive

“NO!”

The scream tore from Thorin’s throat even as it was lost in the rage of noise produced by the fighters roaring battle cries as enemies descended on the party from all sides, bits of grass and brush falling from their bodies. The dwarf king had only the vaguest impression of both men and orcs before his focus became only those of immediate threat. Orcrist swept out, cutting off the thrust of the ill kept man charging at the dwarf king, mad eyes and a jagged, black toothed snarl turning to shock at the sudden pain. Without even watching the other fall, Thorin twisted around, blade ringing against the crow-bar like blade held by an Uruk-hai. Several parries and his foe left a fatal opening, Orcrist slicing easily through shoddy boiled leather armor. 

As he always had, Thorin became focused solely upon the next foe, the coming threat, dropping easily into what some warriors named ‘battle mind’. Enemies became faceless obstacles to be dealt with as quickly as possible, the occasional friend finding their way to his side an extension of his own weaponry. Moving, parrying, dodges that carried him around the field in a deadly dance, until he found himself for a brief moment next to Fíli and Kíli, forming a hollow triangle with his nephews. Both fought well, actions seamlessly complimenting each other, as they had been taught, making them a formidable foe for any who dared them, showing no sign of any wound that the arrows may have inflicted. 

Then Thorin was swept away from them once more, his next opponent using his greater height to an advantage to force a retreat on the dwarf. A roar in Khuzdul from behind the man alerted him to the presence of another before he could see anyone, then his foe fell forward, death glazing his eyes. Red beard bristling, eyes bright, Glóin wrenched an ax from the man’s back, grinning at his king before turning once more to the fray. An arrow whistled past Thorin’s face, instinct making the king jerk back before some part of him noted it taking the opponent who sought to blindside him in the throat. 

The next foe to come at him, however, almost proved Thorin’s undoing, for it was a dwarf. Thorin took a step back, hesitating for a fraction of a second at the sight of one of his own people charging him, hatred naked upon his face, and his foot slipped upon grass made slick by the debris of battle. The king went down hard upon his back, his enemy leaping to take advantage only to be met with Orcrist’s point in front, and the war hammer of Dwalin to the back.

The dying dwarf had long, stringy coal black hair and black eyes, collapsing to the ground next to the Longbeard king. A Blacklock, then, which accounted for the sloppy weapons training the other had shown. One should never blindly leap, even when the foe was down, for a dying dwarf could still take his opponent with him. Even as Thorin scrambled for purchase to regain his feet, part of him noted a sudden quiet descending around him. The clash of metal had been replaced with stillness, low moans of the wounded now clearly heard. 

With urgency gone, Thorin stayed down for a long moment, assessing himself, but other than a stinging from a small cut on his hand, he seemed unharmed. As he began to gather himself to rise, a hand was offered, pulling against his weight as he used the other to regain his feet. He found himself gazing up into the fierce blue gaze of Legolas, bow held loosely in the elf’s free hand. Recalling the arrow that had aided him, Thorin grunted, narrowing his eyes at the prince.

“That is twice now you’ve saved my life, Prince of Mirkwood. What would your father say?”

Legolas’ eyes danced as his grin widened, bending down to pull the arrow from his fallen foe.

“He would most likely chide me for poor marksmanship, Thorin Oakenshield. But alas, ‘tis not me who should be thanked. This arrow is not mine.”

The elf extended the shaft toward him, blue fletching decorating its end. Kíli! With a lurch of his gut, Thorin frantically began to look about the field until he saw his two nephews, to the left and slightly behind him. Kíli was standing, chest heaving, bow still to hand and sword stuck in the body of an orc in front of him, Fíli standing at his back, twin swords dripping blood. Even as their uncle watched, the younger prince’s arm dropped the bow to his side, body swaying alarmingly as his brother allowed swords to fall to the ground, spinning to take Kili’s weight. Gimli was at his cousins’ sides with two great strides, catching the bow from Kíli before it could be broken beneath his body.

“KILI!”

Dis’ scream jolted Thorin from his immobility, the royal siblings both rushing toward the same goal as Fíli gently supported his brother to the ground. Their mother flung herself to her knees next to them, heedless of the filth of battle.

“Where are you hurt?”

Whether she directed that demand at one or both her sons, Thorin wasn’t sure, but Fíli was the only one to answer.

“It’s alright, he’s just exhausted. I have a cut on my upper arm and we’re both bruised where those arrows hit our armor, but we’ll be fine.”

“I’ll check them. I didn’t even receive a scratch.”

Gimli gave his king a nod, which Thorin returned, wondering when he would stop seeing the younger dwarf as his father, and when the flash of a white beard at his side would not have him expecting Balin.

“Thorin!”

Dwalin’s summons pulled the king from his heirs before he could question Fíli’s glib dismissal, urgency in the warrior’s tone warning that the other should take no delay in joining him. Upon the ground at Dwalin’s feet lay Oain; Glóin and Bofur were standing at the dying dwarf’s head, the sight of the traitor bringing boiling to the surface all the rage so long repressed. 

“Why did you do this?”

The harsh demand was met with a sneer.

“The Longbeards are not the only dwarves able to read the signs and portents! Durin’s tyranny will end!” Harsh coughs cut off further words for a long moment, the half-Blacklock turning his head to peer past his interrogators toward the other small huddle of dwarves, blood flecking his lips and a maniacal grin upon his twisted lips. “You will never reach the mountain ere the appointed time and with those two alive. You have no path open to you, Oakenshield. I only regret I will not live to see you fail to protect them!”

The hate blazed one final time in the mad eyes, and then the body slumped in death, Thorin meeting the gazes of his companions grimly. There was little doubt as to who Oain had meant with that dying threat, nor that he was telling the truth about the routes to the mountain held against them. Even more troubling was the reference to a time limit that none among them was aware of. Were Oain’s words true, or did he seek to mislead? Why attack the princes when Thorin walked just behind, an easy target? And what could have caused this unreasoning hatred of Durin’s Folk? Other clans had always been welcomed by the Longbeards, why, Glóin, kneeling now to search the traitor, was half Firebeard! Broadbeam blood was also liberally mixed into the ruling houses of Durin’s Folk, the other clans mostly living too far away to intermarry with them.

“Thorin,” The voice of Legolas diverted him from further speculation, the elf holding a black arrow carefully by the fletching. “You must ensure neither prince was scratched, this arrow was poisoned. Asp.”

Taking the arrow, Thorin’s eyes widened as he smelt the faintest trace of bitter odor from the arrow tip, a sheen of yellow-green collected on flaws in the metal. The asp was a burrowing snake from the southlands, mere drops of its venom known to be enough to kill a grown horse. The traitor forgotten, the king raced to the side of the brothers, Dis, Kifir and Gimli taken aback by the fierce rage on Thorin’s face, the others joining them at the sight of their liege’s urgency.

“Get their armor and tunics off, now!”

The order was barked, hands already lifting Kíli from an astonished Fíli, Dwalin fumbling with the blonde’s coat and armor as the older prince tried to protest. 

“What’s wrong? Thorin-“

Bofur grabbed the other arm, swearing as the leather caught on Fíli’s vambrace.

“Poison, lad. Now hush.”

The toymaker rarely spoke so forcefully, Thorin noted as he fought with the arm of Kili’s jacket, dark eyes watching him silently, but offering no other sign that the younger prince was aware of being manhandled. The slight glaze to the eyes could speak of more than exhaustion, Thorin knew. Both were being quickly stripped, Fíli protesting the entire time that he was fine, and would have felt the tip of the arrow had it made it through the chainmail weave, that they should all be seeing to Kíli, but the other prince remained ominously silent.

Thorin, however, was too intent upon overseeing the checking of both his nephews to pay attention to the other’s words, haunted by the image of the arrow in Legolas’ hand. The tip had not been the normal broad triangle of a war arrow, easily stopped by chainmail. No, this one was a pile arrow, a four-sided cone that tapered into an elongated needle-like tip. Made to defeat even the fine weave of dwarven chainmail, they were the preferred type of head used by orcs…and assassins. 

Fíli’s back was the first bared, as the older brother was able to aid in the process, Dis and Dwalin both running their hands across the skin before stiffening in alarm. The blonde twisted in a futile attempt to see what had alarmed them, and Thorin heard Kili’s breath quicken, though nothing was voiced. 

“What is it?”

The king demanded harshly, heart in his throat and hands momentarily stilled on the laces to Kili’s tunic.

“Bruises and a scratch, but it is a red line only, no sign of irritation or poison.”

It was Dwalin who answered as Dis was shaking, face white and hand frozen upon her son’s back. 

“I don’t think the arrow got through. Look!”

Bofur, Fíli’s chain mail in his hands, grinned, triumphantly holding up two broken rivets from the rings that would run down the center of the prince’s back. Such sharp metal would easily account for the scratches! Blue eyes, bright and with no hint of pain, met his, the blonde giving his uncle a nod of reassurance. The poison of the asp, even from such a surface scratch, would be showing signs by now, at least at the entry point. He turned back to the limp form of his younger nephew, meeting dark, barely open, but anxious eyes. Gimli and Glóin pulled the younger prince’s tunic from him as Thorin gave him a small smile, holding Kíli away from his body to facilitate the garment’s removal.

“Fíli is fine.”

“I’m right here, Kíli.”

The older brother answered at the same time as his uncle, voice partially muffled by the tunic he was slipping back over his head. Fíli gave his sibling a cheeky grin before moving to Glóin, who was gently probing at something on Kili’s bared back. The blonde took one look and paled, frantic eyes meeting Thorin’s as he quickly took over holding up his brother from his uncle, pressing the suddenly thrashing dark head down onto his shoulder. 

The king moved around behind, knowing but dreading what he must be about to see. A small line of red, barely more than a scratch, was in the center of Kili’s back, the skin around it already swollen and inflamed with an unhealthy greenish tinge. One of the arrow tips had made it through.


	22. The Darkest Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a goodbye is said to one of their own... or is it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

22\. The Darkest Hour

Thorin’s body went cold at the sight of his nephew’s doom, so tiny, and yet lethal. There was no known antidote to the poison of an asp, only a slow, painful slide into death. One hand reached out to lay upon that dark haired head, the other clasping his older sister-son’s shoulder only to be thrust aside by his sister.

“No…no…no…”

It was a low moan repeated over and over as she tried to take her younger son from his brother, but Fíli would not loosen his grip, completely focused upon mumbling soft words in Kili’s ear. Was the young one still aware? Thorin hastily stood, moving around the back of Fíli until he was able to meet terrified, pain filled brown eyes. One arm weakly flopped, as if his nephew had tried and failed to reach out to him as the poison’s paralysis set in. Tears in his eyes, Thorin took the limp hand in his own, the other smoothing the dark hair from Kili’s eyes.

“We’re here with you, Kíli.”

There was nothing more to say, no words that would not be a lie, and he would not let that be his nephew’s last memory. Part of the king wanted nothing more than to tear apart the whole of Middle Earth for such a cruel fate as this, to have him back for not even two months before having his youngest ripped from them once more.

“Is there no help? What about Lorien?”

Gimli hoarsely asked from where the others had gathered around them. Legolas answered, tone full of sorrow.

“There is nothing that can be done save to ease his pain, Gimli.”

And they could not even do that much, most of their medicines having been used after the flood. Except… Hastily, Thorin tore at Kili’s belt, brushing off Fíli’s puzzled questions until fingers found the Arkenstone, still tied in its small pouch.

“You don’t think…”

Fíli’s blue eyes met his with the barest hint of hope, but Thorin could not allow any emotion within himself save determination that this one miracle be granted them. Unable to look at the others, he carefully took the youngest prince’s limp hand, curling the fingers around the stone with his own overtop, and then closed his eyes, all of his heart and soul asking this one boon of Mahal. The Heart of the Mountain stayed cool beneath their fingers and Thorin bit back the urge to toss the thing as far away from them as he could. 

Under his hand, he could feel Kíli begin to shake, a glance up showing tears sliding from those expressive brown eyes, though whether from pain, grief, or fear, the older dwarf couldn’t tell. Gently, he went to take the Arkenstone from Kíli only to find the prince’s muscles had locked around the useless thing, spasms rippling along the back of the hand, yet another sign of the venom at work. Finally, someone cleared their throat, bringing Thorin’s attention back the situation.

“He should not die amongst such filth as these.” Over the heads of the princes, Thorin saw Glóin toe one of the corpses in disgust. “Let us at least move away from here.”

“To where?”

Fíli’s voice cracked with suppressed emotion, eyes blazing at his elder, body rocking back and forth. It would not take much to topple the older prince into a complete collapse, and that push was certain to come before much longer. Thorin frowned, standing to consider the options, forcing himself to think rationally. Mirkwood was well within an hour’s travel, but he was loath to allow Kíli to die underneath those tainted branches, within the shadow of Dol Guldur. Even with the destruction of Sauron and all that he had built, that place held no easy memories for them, would only serve to underline the loss that they suffered this day.

“Lothlorien would offer sanctuary within their borders, should you wish it.”

The words were tentative, the elven prince unsure of the reception such an offer might receive from Thorin, he was certain. Instead of yelling, however, the king felt nothing but relief. There was no room for his ancient grudge against elven kind now, not even questioning how a prince of Mirkwood could be so certain of their reception within another’s lands. Thorin wanted only the peace to allow a few last hours with Kíli for Fíli and Dis, and he would accept anything that would offer that, even if it was offered by elves.

He gave Legolas a solemn nod, a glare around the company ensuring that none would dare to object, even Dwalin. As soon as the decision was made, a feeling of such peace came upon him that the king glanced around suspiciously, but there were only his companions and the dead.

The elf turned, a few words of his own tongue bringing a horse to them, the animal immediately sinking to its knees. Without a word, Fíli stood, hefting his brother’s weight, and clumsily swung a leg over the saddle, Kíli sitting in front of him held upright by a strong arm. Another word from Legolas, and the horse smoothly stood without jostling its riders. It would not be a comfortable ride for the dwarven princes, but it would serve. The others quickly gathered discarded packs and weapons, Dwalin lifting a distraught Dis onto Ruby, and left the dead behind without another glance.

With Legolas and Gimli in the lead, the slow procession was standing upon the bank of the Anduin in just over an hour, the golden mallorn trees of Lothlorien across from them. Upon the shore waited a large flat barge capable of taking the entire party, two elves standing at the ready as if they had known the dwarves and their woodland kinsman were coming. They were swiftly across the river, another elf appearing to beckon them wordlessly to a path a short way into the woods, where Thorin was shocked to see a pavilion waiting, a table laden with food before it. Several elves appeared at the side of the horse, reaching for Kíli. Whatever words they spoke were too soft for Thorin to hear, but to his further amazement, the older prince allowed them to take his younger brother into the tent, a flap closing firmly behind them.

“Fíli!”

Dis snapped at her eldest, who now sat forlornly upon the horse, making no move to dismount, blue gaze locked upon the fabric separating him from his sibling.

“They’re going to clean him, make him comfortable. They said they had something so that he won’t be in any more pain.” Fíli whispered as his mother and uncle both came to stand at his stirrup, apprehensive. “Every step the horse took was agony for him.”

Thorin almost gagged at the mere thought, the strong hand of his oldest friend immediately steadying him, at his elbow as of old. A faint, bemused smile now crossed the blonde’s face as the young dwarf allowed his gaze to wonder over his surroundings in a daze.

“He’s wanted to see the mallorn trees since Gimli told him about them in the city, try his archer-“

The older prince broke off, head bowing as his mother laid a gentle hand upon his leg. Fíli wordlessly slipped from the saddle and into her arms, shoulders shaking, united at last in their sorrow. Thorin put one callused hand upon each shoulder, silver, blonde and black heads bowed together. How long they stood there, he didn’t know, but the king was abruptly brought back to the present by a hand touching his back. A glance up met Dwalin’s sad eyes, the warrior giving a meaningful nod toward the tent.

“They said you could see him now.”

Inside, the three found Kíli lying upon thick cushions on the rug floor, silky grey blankets over him as if asleep. A hesitant touch upon his shoulder by his brother brought the brown eyes slowly open to meet theirs, the terror in them almost defeating even Thorin’s nerves of steel.

“I don’t want to die.”

The whispered words were slurred, barely intelligible, and met with a sob from his mother.

“Will it hurt you for me to touch you?”

The question was bitten out, hands twitching to pull her son to her as she waited for his slow answer.

“No…gave me something to stop the pain. So tired…”

Dis lifted him as carefully as if he were once again a newborn, avoiding the padded cloth bandage tied to cover the hideous poison site. Thorin watched as his sister rocked the limp form, humming softly for several long minutes, forcing down the nausea provoked by grief.

Fíli, meanwhile, was quick to move onto the cushions, so that when their mother at last released her younger son, it was to rest against his older brother’s chest, head upon Fíli’s shoulder. The prince murmured in his little brother’s ear, fiercely hugging him, whatever was said drawing the faintest of smiles and a slight nod. Brown eyes sought out his mother pleadingly, as if a young dwarfling once more.

“Please don’t leave.”

Dis firmly shook her head, tears streaking her face, entire body quaking with the struggle to keep her emotions in partial check. One hand reached to caress his cheek before falling back to her side.

“Not this time, Kíli, I promise.”

The look Fíli gave her made it very clear that she would be held to that promise, and this time there would not be a second chance. Thorin reached out then, deliberately diverting the younger prince from the sudden tension in his brother, one hand gently cupping Kili’s cheek, thumb wiping away the tear that slid from his nephew’s eye. He could see the struggle to stay with them being slowly lost, wearing away what energy that was left.  
“We-“His voice broke, and Thorin swallowed hard, forcing himself back under control. “We are here, Kíli, and so very proud of you. Let yourself rest now.”

As if awaiting that final permission from the uncle and king he’d spent his entire life trying to please, Kíli, Prince of Durin’s Blood, allowed his eyes to slip closed, breathe evening out to a slow, barely perceptible rise and fall of the chest. Sometime in the next hours, that breathing would stop, Thorin knew. Behind him, Fíli started to rock harder, clutching his brother to him as if able to keep him anchored in Middle Earth by the sheer force of his hold.

“Why, Uncle? Why?!”

The words were snarled out, eyes meeting Thorin’s, wild as tears poured down the older brother’s cheeks. The king could do nothing but shake his head without answer, his own soul longing to join his older nephew in his rage at this fate. Instead, Thorin forced himself to see beyond the loss, desperate that he would not lose both his nephews this night. Fíli was holding himself together better than expected, but it was strength unlikely to last beyond Kili’s final breath.

Forcing limbs to move, the older dwarf wearily gave his sister’s shoulder a squeeze where she sat numbly clutching one of her son’s limp hands, and brushed out of the tent. Outside, it was a treacherously beautiful day, sun dancing through the trees and a light breeze ensuring that it did not become stifling. Unsurprised, he saw the rest of the party slumped around the untouched table of food, silently watching him.  
“He is fading quickly now, already unconscious. If any of you wish to see him a final time…”

The words were bitter in his mouth, but he forced them out anyway, knowing that he and his family were not the only ones hurting this day. Young Kifir let out a low moan, burying his face in his father’s shoulder, body shaking with tears. Was this, then, how Balin had felt on that long ago day before Erebor, helplessly watching Thorin himself slide to death? It was pure torture, especially for one such as Thorin, who was used to seeing a problem and finding some way to fix it. Even after the loss of Erebor and so many of their people, he had been able to concentrate upon feeding and caring for them, plotting their next destination. This time…  
A hand clasped his shoulder in companionship and understanding, Dwalin’s world-weary eyes meeting his own and reminding him that this was not a sorrow he must shoulder alone. 

“I’ll go see the lad, and then Nast, Bofur and I are returning to the battle site to see if there are any hints to our traitor. When… well, when it’s done, I will see to the body. His ashes should be returned to the mountain.”  
Thorin nodded, grateful that the warrior was willing to take on the task he could not bring himself to contemplate. They were so near to the spot where so many others had once been burned, his own little brother, Frérin, and Dwalin’s father, Fundin, among them. As Dwalin moved past him, Thorin grasped the other’s arm before he could enter the tent, gaze hardening to deep blue ice.

“Retrieve something of Oain’s when you return to the battle. Something that Fain will recognize. He’s owed a message from me.”

The return smile was tight and downright nasty.

“Aye. Doubtless he’ll appreciate a reminder of his brother’s fate.”

Dwalin ducked into the tent behind his liege as Thorin swept a weary gaze over the rest of them. Only Nast, probably no more than a baby dwarrow when the company left Ered Luin, seemed unaffected. That one stood with his back to them, wary eyes tracking every elf that moved near them. Thorin did not bother to tell him there was no need for such vigilance, instead moving to Bofur’s side at the toymaker’s beckoning. 

Beside his father, Kifir clutched Kili’s bow, trying hard to appear grown up and stoic as his lips trembled and eyes glistened with unshed tears. At only forty-two, he was the equivalent of a fourteen or fifteen year old of the race of men, standing with one foot in the world of childhood, and the other foot trying to find a place within the daunting landscape of adulthood. Mutely, the young one held out the bow to him, and the dwarf king knelt swiftly, curling the stubby fingers back around the weapon.

“Hold on to it for now, young one.”

“K-ki- He promised to teach me to shoot.”

The tears spilled then, both Bofur and Thorin hard pressed not to allow their own to flow at the sight. The king swallowed hard, eyes squeezed shut as he fought for control, then reopened them to meet the startling bright green of Kifir’s eyes. 

“I would be honored to fulfill his promise in Kili’s stead, Kifir. And I have a favor to ask of you, one that may not be easy.”

Kifir’s eyes widened, glancing at his father for reassurance before answering the legendary dwarf.

“A-anything I can do, I will, my lord.”

Thorin gifted him with a strained smile, hand clasping Kifir’s arm in silent thanks.

“Fíli has already turned to you once when he faced the loss of his brother, and I believe he will do so again. Just…be there for him. Do not tread lightly, be yourself. You will remind him that there is a reason for living yet.”

Hopefully. Thorin did not add that, but Bofur’s gaze told him they both knew it to be true. Since the birth of the younger dwarf, there had never been a Fíli without a Kíli nearby; they simply came as a pair. The toymaker reached around the younger dwarf then, clasping his king’s forearm, sympathy and reassurance unspoken.

The rest of that day and the night were forever a painful blur to Thorin as he returned to the tent, the family staying clustered around their fallen one as the others came in to say their goodbyes. Later, Dwalin or Glóin would occasionally slip in, but Thorin could not bring himself to respond to their concerned questions or care that they had brought food. Only that slight rise and fall of the chest mattered, the king holding his own breath each time, waiting to see if this was the last, until he slipped into his own rest unawares.


	23. A New Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin falls on his butt - majestically - and the Arkenstone claims its own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

23\. A New Dawn

The cheerful song of birds in the trees woke him to the golden glow of the morning sun shining through the fabric of the tent, a beauty that simply served to underline the loss they had just suffered, instantly souring his thoughts. Thorin was slumped upon the rugs, a blanket thrown over him, he found as he forced a stiff body to push into a seated position. He could not remember falling into sleep, so intent had he been upon his nephews. Glancing around, he spotted Dis slumbering near his feet, curled into herself in sorrow, and Fíli upon the cushions with Kili’s head pillowed on his shoulder, the rise and fall of his chest gently raising his brother’s body as if the younger one still breathed himself. 

Thorin’s breath caught in a choked sob as he realized Kíli lay with unseeing eyes now fixed upon the ceiling of the tent, as if he’d wakened one last time before the end. Steeling himself, the king lumbered to his feet, knowing he must do this one last service for his young nephew before his brother or mother awoke. A shaky hand reached to close the lids forever over those brown orbs when a hand grabbed his wrist, arresting the action. At the same instant, Kili’s eyes snapped to his, focused and alert.

“Yagh!”

The garbled yell was accompanied by a fast jolt backward, landing the king upon his backside on the floor, wide eyes locked on his younger sister-son. Behind his younger brother, Fíli flailed upon being so abruptly awoken, almost sending a limp Kíli tumbling before strong arms instinctively caught the brunette as he’d done many a time when they were younger and had fallen asleep in a pile, worn out by play. Fíli seemed not to be entirely awake, however, because he simply lay back once his brother’s head rested upon his shoulder once more, eyes closing listlessly. Thorin could do nothing but gape at his younger nephew, who had turned his head to stare at his uncle with a puzzled frown.

“Kíli?”

Dis breathed almost in Thorin’s ear, and then pushed past him, one hand hesitantly reaching, almost afraid her son would disappear upon contact. As her fingers brushed his cheek, Kíli blinked, eyes slowly finding her as if regarding a stranger, and then the young dwarf sucked in a deep breath, the spark of life dancing in the brown irises once more.

“Mother? Thorin?” The sound of his name whispered somewhat breathlessly finally broke the king from his shock and he thrust himself back up onto his knees, shoulder to shoulder with Dis. Kili’s gaze darted around the tent, though he did not move his body. “Where are we? Where’s Fíli?”

The puzzlement turned quickly to alarm as his question was met with stunned silence.

“He’s not dea-“

“No!” Dis cut that off hastily, and loudly, quick to offer a reassuring smile even as Thorin noted that her older son had not stirred. “No, you’re laying on him. How he didn’t wake with the ruckus your uncle just made, I don’t know.”

The teasing glance at him received a look of fond exasperation back before he turned the gentle smile upon his nephew, hand brushing the young one’s forehead.

“How are you feeling?”

He asked, unsurprised to feel the slight warmth of a fever once more.

“Me?” Kíli frowned, as if that were not the question he’d been expecting. “I’m fine, just… tired. And hungry.”

The second assessment was added with surprise, as if the young prince could not imagine why he should be feeling so. 

“I’m going to lift you. Do not try to aid; allow me to do the work.”

After waiting for the nod, Thorin slid an arm behind Kili’s shoulders, easily pulling the limp body up until his sister-son’s head rested upon his shoulder. Dis leaned over and retrieved Kili’s folding knife from where his things lay nearby, and deftly slit the silky bandage material, baring her son’s back. Where yesterday there had been a swollen, inflamed scratch with green poison lines radiating out, there was nothing but a faint white line surrounded by deep bruising. Dis pursed her lips, a finger tracing it until Kíli began to squirm slightly, muttering something about tickling into his uncle’s shoulder. With a soft laugh, the king eased his nephew back onto his brother, pulling the grey blanket back over him to prevent a chill. At the growing uneasiness in Kili’s eyes, he reached out, ruffling the brunette’s hair in affection, which provoked a breathy laugh from his nephew.

“Thorin, he was d-“

Thorin put a stilling hand upon Dis’ shoulder before she could say anything more, blue gaze searching his nephew’s face, though he kept his features relaxed, a slight smile upon his lips. Provoking panic in the young dwarf would serve no purpose, especially as Kíli currently showed no signs of recalling the trauma of yesterday; yet the question had to be asked.

“What do you remember, Kíli?”

“Riding…” Kíli hesitated, brow creased as he searched his memory. “Fíli and I were telling Kifir the story of the barrel ride. Something hit me, I think. Then it becomes a jumble. There was shouting, fighting…? Uncle…”

Thorin was quick to grasp the hand that lay atop the blanket, pleased when his grip was returned with some strength.

“Do not worry about it, it’s not important now.”

His stubborn Kíli, however, was not about to let it go that easily, he could see.

“If it’s not important, why do I have the Arkenstone in my hand?”

Kíli limply rolled his other hand, the stone suddenly visible from where it had been hidden by the blanket. Thorin and Dis exchanged a dark look, recalling the failure of yesterday, and the king carefully went to pick up the gem, but stopped, something catching his attention. Thorin took Kili’s other hand in his, turning it so that the finger obscured palm was face up. As the fingers obediently opened at his touch, Thorin gasped as he caught sight of the perfect miniature image of the Arkenstone now visible in the center of Kili’s palm. Thorin allowed them all a moment to stare before firmly curling his nephew’s hand closed over the blue lines and nodding at Kili’s living cushion.

“We need to wake your brother.”

Immediately, Thorin regretted that order as a mischievous grin broke out on Kili’s face, elbow digging into Fíli’s ribs before either of the older two dwarfs could stop him.

“Fíli!”

The older brother stirred, head turned toward the far side of the tent away from them so that they barely caught the resulting mutter.

“Go ‘way. Leave me ‘lone!”

The voice was dead, devoid of any emotion, even anger. Frowning, Kíli cocked his head up toward the other; trying to see his brother as Thorin held his breath, worry for his other sister-son now clenching his stomach. Meeting his sister’s equally concerned gaze, he kept his tone gentle.

“Fíli, it is alright. Kíli is fine.”

There was a derisive snort at that.

“Dream.”

The word was mumbled, head not moving even as Kíli poked his brother once more.

“Fíli, I’m right here. What’s the matter with you?”

A slight shake of the golden head almost had Thorin growling in frustration, cursing the stubbornness inherent in their family line. He raised Kíli off his brother and into Dis’ arms, and then grabbed his older sister-son, almost yanking the other into a seated position and turning his head toward his brother.

“I’m right here.” 

Kíli repeated, fear showing on his face at the odd actions of the others. Fíli snorted again, eyes rolling.

“No…Dead now. Uncle will let them burn you like all the others. Burned dwarf!” He let out a faint manic giggle. “Sounds like a troll recipe. Would need more sage, though.”

*Crack!*

Dis’ hand slapped her eldest’s cheek, jolting his head back in Thorin’s hold while Kíli jerked, startled. Abruptly, the blue eyes widened, losing their haziness as they focused on his brother and mother. Thorin, meanwhile, had to struggle to keep his own temper in check, unable to blame his sister for her actions.

The burned dwarves were not something any among them took lightly and certainly never joked about. After the Battle of Azanulbizar, there had been so many dead that they were forced to build funeral pyres as there was no way to bury that many in stone tombs and no true dwarf would rest easily in a grave of dirt. To have such a one in the family was a source of pride and sorrow, heads held high that a member had given their life for their people.

One quaking hand tentatively touched his brother, mirroring the earlier actions of their mother, and then Fíli was sobbing, Kíli clutched to him once more. Unable to deal with the raw emotions present in the tent any longer, Thorin stood, making his way to the flap and out. He found the rest of the company seated on the ground around the low table he vaguely recalled from yesterday, picking at the fruits, breads and cheeses laid out there.   
Dwalin looked up and swallowed hard, voice breaking on words that sounded like gibberish to Thorin’s ears. The king shook his head at the other, wordlessly walking to the edge of the clearing, staring out into the trees attempting to sort in his own mind all that had just happened. How? The Arkenstone? It was the only explanation that Thorin could think of unless the elves were playing them all for fools. No, not even they would stoop so low as to allow them to believe Kíli dying, and there was no denying the poison that had been present upon that arrow, nor the clear signs of the venom working through the young dwarf’s body. A hand on the shoulder shook him gently; Dwalin’s words clear this time.

“’Tis done, then?”

Before Thorin could answer, the tent flap was pushed aside, catching the attention of all of them. In the entrance stood Dis and Fíli, supporting a pale, wavering Kíli between them, blinking in the bright sunshine. The prince looked around at the open mouths and abruptly paled faces, and offered two hesitant words, half question.

“Good morning?”

Thorin threw back his head and laughed in sheer relief and delight.


	24. Mark of the Traitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an enemy is named.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

24\. Mark of the Traitor

It was a much livelier company that demolished the waiting breakfast an hour later, food, jokes, insults and laughter flying with equal abandon about the small clearing. Their hosts, still baffled by Kili’s abrupt healing, had chosen to heed Legolas’ advice that the party be left to themselves for a time, the Mirkwood prince having some familiarity with dwarven table manners-or lack thereof. This was not to say that his people could not be as stuffy and formal as the other races should the situation demand, Thorin reflected, but with such a reason for celebration at hand, no one was in the mood for niceties.

For Thorin, it was as if emerging from a long nightmare into the dawn. It would take time for him to reacquaint himself with daylight, and all that went with it, finding himself having to keep an almost constant note of where his younger sister-son was at. In this, he at last realized the true depth of the fears Fíli had been keeping tight reign upon since his own awakening here, the mere thought of turning to find the young dark-haired prince absent an unsettling one. 

Fortunately, Kíli wasn’t going very far at the moment. The poison may have been cleared from his body, but once again the healing had taken a toll upon the young dwarf, leaving renewed weakness and a low fever that made him snappish and sullen with the bewildering circumstances he found himself in. This was not aided by the vague answers and obvious evasions Kíli received whenever the young prince attempted to question someone upon what he could not remember from yesterday, none taking it upon themselves to relate his near death to him. 

The others were willing to allow the prince his moodiness, simply grateful that he was there at all, though Thorin had suspicions that the restraint shown by at least Dwalin and Glóin would not last much longer. Fíli, sticking close by his brother’s side, was obviously anticipating the need to intervene, and had already blunted several of Kili’s surlier answers. 

The brunette had been propped up against Mithril’s saddle, half laying upon cushions and covered in a light blanket to prevent chill. He had endured the prodding and questions of the baffled elven healers with silence, and none of the others had chosen to volunteer any guesses as to how a dying dwarf still lived either; even, to Thorin’s shock and grudging respect, Legolas. Finally, Thorin had snapped at the healers to either provide aid or leave them alone, his fierce glower sending them scurrying.

The company itself presented an odd sight at the moment, clothed in whatever spare clean garments that could be found. The elves had assured all that their clothing would be cleaned and repaired by the morning, an unlooked for boon that none had spurned. Whether they would be able to continue that journey in the morning and what road they would take had yet to be decided. As the dwarves settled back from the feast, all satiated for the moment, Thorin broke the comfortable silence, looking across to his old friend.

“What did you discover when you returned to the battle site yesterday, Dwalin?”

The large warrior stilled, hands flexing in an old nervous habit most often indulged when the other was angered, catching the attention of the others. Nast and Bofur, the two who had accompanied Dwalin, exchanged grim looks before the toymaker placed a scrap of parchment upon the table, a drawing of a crude hand shown there. It was he who answered for the Warmaster of Erebor.

“The men and orcs all bore the sign of the White Hand, not the Red Eye.” At Fíli’s frown, he hastened to add, “’Tis the symbol that Saruman chose to use for his troops, which doesn’t mean much with the wizard imprisoned in Orthanc.”

“Except he’s not.” Gimli growled, eyes flashing. “The Ents allowed him to leave not long after the destruction of the Ring, thinking he could not do further harm. Gandalf, however, was not so sure and neither am I. It could be that his treachery reaches further than any knew. Didn’t you tell me, Father, that Saruman was the one who most wanted to stop the Company at Rivendell?”

Glóin nodded, stroking his beard.

“Aye, that’s what Gandalf told me when we met before the Council of Elrond. He’d been more concerned with us than with clear evidence that the Witch-King of Angmar may have been revived by Sauron. Personally, I’d hazard that he thought our taking on Smaug might stir up Dol Guldur before he was ready. Saruman was already searching for that thrice-cursed Ring of Bilbo’s by that time, supposedly.”

“And the Lady told Legolas and me that she felt a power being released upon the borders of Mordor about a day after we set out from Minas Tirith.” The red-haired dwarf added, cocking an eyebrow pointedly at Thorin.  
“The flood was a trap.”

The disgruntled mutter came from directly across from Thorin, Dwalin slamming a fist onto his thigh. The king grimaced, shaking his head.

“Even were we certain of that, Dwalin, it proved an ineffective one. We live, with the exception of the two guards, whose loss was regrettable but not critical to the prophecy. Was there anything upon the bodies of the dwarves?”

“A lot of tattoos, including the warrior’s sign, which none of those three deserved to wear, and a few coins, that’s all.” The warrior sighed; displeased with the news he carried. “The one you killed was clearly a Blacklock, though the other looked to be an Ironfist. There was a slashed through clan tattoo on his arm.”

“He’d been banished.”

Next to Thorin, the blonde prince’s face twisted in distaste at the thought, banishment being one of the harshest, and rarest, punishments meted out upon an errant dwarf. To be without clan was to be without home or heritage, even the records of the birth being expunged, in many ways a worse fate than death could ever be. The king’s attention, however, had been caught by something else.

“You state that they wore the warrior’s tattoo?” 

He sharply demanded, noting the sudden interest of Dis and Kíli as well. Glóin and Gimli both leaned forward intently, the red bearded warrior voicing his thoughts.

“If the Ironfist was banished, that should have been disfigured as well. Are you certain that’s what it was?”

The look upon Dwalin’s face clearly asked if Gimli had taken leave of his senses to ask such a question of the large warrior.

“Of course I’m sure. I wear one, or had you forgotten that? And it was disfigured somewhat.”

“How? I must know precisely!” Thorin demanded, intensity making several of the others lean unconsciously away from the king.

“Here. I made a drawing of all the inkings. All three had the same disfigured symbol, even Oain.”

Bofur handed his king the small notebook he always carried to sketch toy designs. Upon the page he’d opened it to were several rough sketches, but one was clear enough to cause anger to well up within the dwarf. Wordlessly, he handed it to Dis, who paled, passing it in turn to the princes. 

The right to wear the warrior’s sign had traditionally been granted to any dwarf who completed individual training with a Warmaster and had proven themselves worthy by not only killing the historic foes of the dwarves- the orcs, goblins, and wargs - but also having shown witnessed leadership upon the battle field and off. The right to wear the sign would then be confirmed by a council of all who bore it, not even the king able to overrule them. These dwarves would serve as the warmaster’s lieutenants in battle, and could accept places as guards to the royal families of the seven kingdoms, a position of special trust and honor. It was not recognition lightly aspired to or easily cast aside, it being almost unheard of for such a one to turn traitor. 

“This hasn’t been disfigured.” Kíli flipped the parchment book back toward the table in clear disgust. “I just never thought I’d live to actually see one. They were supposedly all destroyed over nine hundred years ago in Thrain I’s purges.”

“You recognize this sign?”

His older brother asked incredulously, which received a roll of the eyes from the younger.

“Of course, and if you don’t, brother, you weren’t paying nearly as much attention to the lessons as you had Balin convinced you were. That’s the sign used by the Death Warriors.”

That caused the anticipated eruption, voices rising from all sides as each dwarf fought to make themselves heard by sheer vehemence and volume. All had been taught of the tainted ones from the time that they were dwarflings, a dark group of dwarves who had believed wholeheartedly the lies of Sauron long ago, fighting even against their own in the Lord of Mordor’s service. After the triumph of the Last Alliance, however, the group had been outlawed by all seven of the dwarven lords, hunted and hounded until the last were supposedly executed by the founder of Erebor, several times great grandfather of the current royal line. 

It was then that the sign marking the cult was forbidden to be shown or taught to any dwarves save those of the direct royal line, lest others counterfeit the symbol, a sure way to know if their old enemies moved against them once more. As Erebor’s Master of Secrets and Lore, Balin had known of it, and taught his young royal charges, but would not have shared such things even with his own brother.

“This explains quite a bit.” 

Dis bit out, receiving several nods in agreement. All had wondered how a small group of traitors could organize to the extent that these were, and successfully hide most of their activities. The cult had been known for its cunning and ruthlessness, willingly using any weapon to hand, and waiting even decades for the opportune moment to strike. They were also reputed to have secreted stashes of magical items from the First and Second Ages, and untold wealth, most caches never having been found.

“There must be a leader still within Erebor.”

Kili’s voice was soft, but determined. Thorin could not help the wave of relief he felt at hearing that, the young one still using his head despite all that he had been through recently. None could have blamed him had Kíli wished to absent himself from any further discussions, ask that he be allowed to stay where it was safe, such as within Minas Tirith, rather than to continually face the threat of more pain. To be willing to face more when he had been dying painfully mere hours before, even if he did not consciously recall… 

It showed a level of maturity that many dwarves twice Kili’s years would be hard pressed to display in similar circumstances, and confirmed that the young prince was ready for the responsibility he must soon shoulder. By the look of consternation upon the blonde prince’s face, mixed with some pride, the older brother had recognized the same thing Thorin had, though he looked to be unsure as yet how to deal with this new side to his baby brother. Undoubtedly, Fíli was wishing that Kíli could be kept so safe he never faced even the prospect of a bruise again, but that could not be. They were of Durin’s Blood, and they would not shy away even from death.

“Aye, but we’ve no clue who it is.” Dwalin eyed the ink drawings as if the things would attack them at any moment. “And without that…”

“This is why I will be sending a message to the regents.” Thorin allowed a hint of maliciousness to glint in his blue eyes. “Telling them that Kíli was killed by an assassin’s arrow. We shall see what or who reacts then.”  
“Especially if all of us seem to disappear off of any known road at the same time.”

Fíli added, clearly taken with his uncle’s idea. His mother, however, was already shaking her head.

“That would work if it could be accomplished, Fíli, but they are certain to have all the roads watched, and Kíli will not be hard to spot atop his pony.”

Rather than be deterred by that, the blonde’s face split into a smug grin, an unmistakable warning sign to all who’d spent time around the young princes. From the brunette behind him’s twitching lips, Kíli had clearly followed his sibling’s scheming mind, Thorin noted with an internal sigh, bracing for whatever the two were up to now. The pair of imps were openly gleeful, staring at their cousin Gimli, who instantly began to shift around nervously, having had vast prior experience with the two in this mood.

“What?!”

The red bearded dwarf finally blurted, scowling at the two.

“You’re friends with Legolas…”

Fíli started, only to have Kíli smoothly take up the thought in a way that had many believing the two were twins instead of five years apart. It was a habit that drove Thorin crazy, usually snapping at them to speak one at a time or not at all.

“The Prince of Mirkwood. Surely he’d know paths through the forest…”

“Hidden paths that no dwarf would know to watch.”

Fíli finished, and then leaned back against his brother’s leg, both waiting for a reaction. Gimli’s eyebrows had shot up at the idea, a slight smile curving his lips up.

“Aye, that might work at that. I’ll ask him.”

The dwarf began to climb to his feet only to be stilled by his father’s hand clamping down hard upon his shoulder, Glóin’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“And what makes you three so certain you can trust an elf, especially the prince himself? More than likely he’ll lead us straight to his father’s dungeons once again! I thought you two-“He stabbed a finger at the princes, “would know better, at least! And that’s presuming we’d survive going through that bloody wood again in the first place!”

Gimli stiffened and Thorin raised an eyebrow at Dwalin, who’d been seated beside his cousin, but the warrior just sat back with his arms crossed, clearly having no intention of breaking up the incipient battle. The red-bearded dwarf looked down at his father, face set in a scowl.

“I’m not saying trust any elf, I’m saying we can trust Legolas! I’ve fought by his side-“

“He’s an elf!”

Glóin’s roar elicited a groan of pain from Kíli while most of the others ducked away, shielding their ears. Before another word could be hurled at full boom, Fíli shot to his feet.

“Enough! If you two want to kill each other, do it someplace where you’re not screaming in my brother’s ear! And it’s not just Gimli saying that we can trust Legolas, Glóin, its Kíli and I too. Unless you’re saying that our judgment also cannot be trusted?”

That was a loaded statement if Thorin had ever heard one. By subtly putting the weight of their status behind the question, Fíli was putting Glóin in a very tight position. They were both young, but the princes had been tested by quest and battle and the older generation of dwarves had better start to treat the two with respect or the next few years would be very rocky indeed. Glóin scowled, but backed down grudgingly.

“That still doesn’t get us within Erebor unseen.”

He grumbled, not meeting the eyes of his princes or his son. At the end of the table, however, Bofur was grinning.

“Not to worry, Glóin, Kifir here just reminded me of the solution for that. We use the secret door!”

“I thought that was collapsed as unstable after Smaug!”

It really wasn’t turning out to be a good day for Glóin, since this latest objection was received with a snort from Dwalin.

“Not likely.”

“And that means what?”

Thorin finally broke in, head swinging between his old companions, then nailing Bofur with a silent demand for an explanation.

“Dain told everyone that, Thorin, so we’d have a discrete entrance into the mountain. Nori and I created a hidden path to it, and a few trusted individuals are the only ones who were told of its continued existence. We simply need someone on the inside to open it for us.” Bofur’s eyes twinkled, “Unless you’d rather wait for Durin’s Day, of course.”

There were groans at that, Fíli tossing a bit of leftover food at the toymaker, a momentary silence descending until Dwalin raised an eyebrow at his king, eyes upon the dwarf lying propped behind him.

“You’ve yet to give an answer to us as to how Kíli could be alive, Thorin.”

Right then and there, the king heartily wished that his cousin were anywhere but here. They had carefully danced around that topic not only with the elves and the rest of their party, but with Kíli, who suddenly blanched at the warrior’s words. Undoubtedly, the others had their suspicions, but until now, none had openly questioned the fact, unwilling to bring up the emotional trauma of yesterday.

“What do you mean, ‘still alive’? What happened yesterday? Uncle? Fíli?”

The look that Fíli shot the old warrior across the table was as lethal as the venom that had tried to steal his little brother’s life.

“Do you remember us being attacked?” The younger prince hesitantly nodded, and Fíli sighed. “Well, they tried to kill us by hitting us with pile arrows with poisoned tips. One of them got through your armor and scratched you. We- I thought-“

“You thought I was dead, which is why you were being such an idiot this morning.”

The younger brother was not above injecting a little teasing, a rebuke dying on his uncle’s lips when the older prince chuckled ruefully.

“That I was, little brother. And why Kifir about knocked you over with his hug.” The blonde smiled at the young dwarf, who ducked his head, embarrassed, then the other prince turned back to his sibling. “Show them your palm.”

Though he’d already seen it once, the odd markings that Kíli had concealed from all under a bandage sent a chill up Thorin’s spine. The outline of the metal housing the stone was an oval shape of blue lines, as would be most tattoos, but the center radiated with colors, as if one stared into the Arkenstone itself, the light shining right through Kili’s skin. The thing was about an inch wide and two inches long in the dead center in the middle of his palm. The others crowded around with various exclamations of shock uttered in low tones, especially when the young prince brought out the actual stone, holding it near his marked hand for comparison. Finally, Bofur sat back with a twinkle in his eye and a half smile dancing upon his lips, much as he had when telling Bilbo to ‘think furnace- with wings!’ 

“Well, you’ll never need a candle at night, lad.”

This time, the food came from multiple directions, along with a good-natured fist to the shoulder from Dwalin, which sent the toymaker sprawling and provoked a laugh from the dark haired prince.


	25. Lady of the Golden Wood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lady Galadriel has her say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

25\. Lady of the Golden Wood

It was evening, the trees reflecting the glorious sunset into bands of gold everywhere one looked, when their hosts arrived. The dwarves had spent most of the day reveling in the miracle brought to them, spirits high despite the identification of their foes. Dis and Fíli had taken Kíli back into the tent some time ago to rest, but Thorin was content simply to sit, finding a rare peace and beauty he’d not thought could be in a forest, especially an elven one. This place, however, was nothing like the scant memories he held of Mirkwood forest from before the fall of Erebor. The Woodland Realm had always been a secretive world, built for defense, and rarely welcoming outsiders; Even the trees had given off a feeling of hostility so heavy dwarves had felt it. Lorien was open, air fresh and renewing, yet there was a subtle power here that even Sauron must have hesitated to provoke.

“Lord Durin Returned, Thorin Oakenshield,” The soft, cultured voice startled the dwarven king, sending him scrambling to his feet in a rather undignified manner, cursing the silent steps of elves, though the Lady Galadriel did not seem to notice. On her arm was her lord, the white haired Sindarin elf, Celeborn. “We bid you welcome to Lothlorien, and regret that we had not arrived in time to greet you ourselves yesterday.”

With a scowl for the awkwardness she’d already tricked him into showing; the dwarf king inclined his head to the two elven rulers, though his words remained gruffly polite.

“I was not aware that you had intended to return so soon, Lady. I thank you for the hospitality shown by your people at our unexpected appearance.”

“Plans change, especially when forces stir that many believed banished from Middle Earth long ago. Your footfalls have echoed like thunder across the lands for those able to hear it.”

Thorin scowled at the hidden rebuke in that mild statement, biting back an acidic comment about how much he’d like to see the Lord Celeborn try handling the Arkenstone. The elf lord gave a small tilt of the head to his fellow monarch before moving off to speak with Legolas, Gimli, and Glóin. Thorin gazed after the elf with a mild concern at the choice of companions, hoping he did not stir up more outrage with the white-bearded dwarf. He was in no mood to discover what carnage could be unleashed by his cousin’s temper, or to deal with the resulting diplomatic nightmare. Instead, he raised a pointed eyebrow at the Lady of Lothlorien, who smiled back, amused.

“Do not worry so about the hobbits. Lord Elrond and Mithrandir will see them safely home. Please, walk with me.”

He waved a hand for her to lead the way, not bothering to comment on how easily she read his concern for the Halflings. He owed it to Bilbo to make certain that his nephew and the others were protected back to the Shire that was all. This was not the way he’d intended to spend the evening, but there were worse elves to be around than the Lady of Lorien.

They’d only briefly met at Minas Tirith, both more concerned with changes in the lives of their own kin then in diplomacy between the races at the time, but he’d found her polite, if infuriatingly cryptic. She also, unlike most of her kind, had not indulged in subtle slights or sly words to remind the dwarves of past grudges between their peoples. Even Elrond had been known to indulge in such things, such as deliberately inviting the Company to dinner in elvish back at Rivendell, which, naturally enough, the dwarves had mistaken for an insult, making them appear foolish when Gandalf blandly corrected Glóin.

“A darkness draws near, Lord Durin. Your people stand upon the edge of renewal, or of their final doom.”

Thorin kept a tight rein upon his temper at the rather vague statement, settling for another scowl as he craned his neck to meet the Lady’s eyes. As deep blue met light blue, it felt as if he had been thrust under a cascade of icy snow melt from the very heights of the Lonely Mountain, sending a shiver through his soul. The dwarf could have sworn she could see into the darkest, most private corners of his mind, laying bare all that he was and hoped to be for her casual inspection. Rage bubbled up at even the idea of such an invasion, leading the king to form the image of a stout stone door- dwarven made, of course- in his mind and thrust the geyser of anger at it. With a boom so powerful he almost believed he’d actually heard the sound, Thorin slammed the portal upon that elegant elven nose, an oddly satisfying action even though he knew it to be an insubstantial fantasy. Surprisingly, it actually received a reaction from the Lady as she blinked, jerking back slightly, and then smiled, apparently satisfied with whatever she had learned. Thorin’s eyes narrowed in realization, voice lowering to a growl.

“Do elves so lack in courtesy that not even one’s mind is private?”

“The power grows within you, Lord Durin. Listen to it, and you will find your path.”

He intended to turn away from the elf in a huff, Khuzdul curse words on the tip of his tongue, but something held him back. Suddenly, the golden trees that had surrounded him were gone, replaced by stone so highly polished that it gleamed.

Galadriel sat upon a raised stone dais, head thrown back in laughter at words spoken by the dwarf next to her, the hall beyond so large that it disappeared into the glittering lights of a thousand lamps lining the great stone columns. He approached her, amused at the scene visiting dwarves from the other kingdoms found unnerving. They had never enjoyed the friendship with the Noldor that so benefited his kingdom, though his fears whispered that it could not last. There was a darker power growing in the lands beyond the great stone portals, one that may yet swallow all of Middle Earth.

“And what conspiracies have the two of you been forming in my absence?”

The other dwarf, Frer, grinned at his monarch, eyes glinting in mischief.

“The Lady was simply relating the antics of her little daughter, my lord. That one will grow to quite the beauty, I am certain, though she’s enough spirit in her to keep whatever elf lord she bonds with on his toes for sure.”

Thorin gasped, mind reeling with the images, staring at the elf in shock. The name of that daughter and her fate so long ago had been a tale that had made its way even into the dwarven kingdoms.

“What did you do?!”

He demanded of her angrily, raised voice echoing in the dim twilight.

“I did nothing, Lord Durin. It is your own destiny that brings this upon you. You already hear the whisperings of the previous Durins within, do you not?”

The dwarf king bowed his head, eyes tightly shut as his stomach churned. The last Durin had been killed at the beginning of the Third Age, years having dimmed the memories to mere legends, and such folklore was often inaccurate. What was the truth that made one of the line claim the name of Durin? It could not be looks alone, for he certainly did not match the descriptions and drawings passed down from the ancient kingdoms. Was this then the true source of the odd feelings and knowledge he’d had since waking in this time, not the Arkenstone as he’d believed? It was a thought that did not sit well with the king, who allowed his discomfort to overrule the diplomatic curb he’d thus far kept upon his tongue.

“What would an elf know of this?”

The words were spat out, eyes blazing; anger rising to taste bitter in his mouth, waiting to be unleashed, but the lady merely raised an eyebrow at him in rebuke.

“You have forgotten to whom you speak, Thorin Oakenshield.” Somehow his true name, instead of being addressed as ‘Lord Durin’, made him feel an erring dwarfling again. “Or you are blinded by your hatred for Thranduil. I am Noldor, kin to the great elven smith Celembrimbor himself, and have walked the halls of Khazad-dûm in friendship.”

The look Galadriel gave him was of compassionate understanding, as if aware of the battle between past injustices and current pragmatism being fought within him, but she said nothing, finally drawing out the hand that had been concealed by the voluminous sleeves of her white gown. In it, she held a dagger that she extended to him, offering the hilt for him to draw. He did not pause to think about it, smoothly grasping the leather grip that felt as if it had been molded for his hand alone and pulling.

The blade was long, perhaps half the length of Bilbo’s Sting, and gleamed a silver white in the dim light. It weighed almost nothing in his hand and his breath caught, realizing it had been forged of pure mithril, the workmanship of a kind unequaled by anything made within hundreds of years. That the forging was at least partly by one of his people was easily recognized by a smith of Thorin’s experience, yet there were other elements no Khazad would have made. Runes twined down both sides of the blade, the ancient Khuzdul reading ‘Durin’, but the other was alike to the writing upon Orcrist.

“What does the elvish script say?”

All previous outrage was drained by the awe he felt at what now rested in his hand, the weapon whispering to him of power, age, and many battles.

“Mellon. Friend.” Galadriel smiled slightly, eyes distance as if reliving a memory he could only wonder at. “It was forged long ago by Celebrimbor and his dwarven friend, Narvi, and given to Lord Durin III. It has since been borne by all of that name, drinking deeply of the black blood of Mordor at the Battle of Dagorlod during the days of the Last Alliance. After the death of Durin VI at the hands of the Balrog, it was returned to me by his grandson, Thrain I, to be given only unto the one who now receives it.”

With a flourish of the hand, she presented the sheath to him, finally wrought of mithril and treated white leather, showing none of the signs of aging that it should have borne. Galadriel’s eyes once again met his own, but this time there was nothing of the unease to it Thorin had felt previously.

“I offer you this pledge, Durin Returned, that should the prophecy be fulfilled and you return to Khazad-dûm, the ties of friendship between our peoples will be renewed.”

Part of him sought to reject that outright, unwilling to once again risk an alliance that had proven false in the past. Yet…

“Your people are leaving Middle Earth.”

“Many, including my lord Celeborn, will choose to abide here yet, while Elessar sits upon Gondor’s throne. He will bring his people to your aid in cleansing the deeps of Khazad-dûm should you chose to call for him.”

Thorin stayed silent, not willing to comment on that until he saw the elven warriors fighting at his side in truth, but not wishing to offend the other by saying so aloud. Nor was he certain he would test that commitment even should the day come to pass when he stood before those ancient gates, unwilling to place elves and dwarves in close proximity to each other with multiple weapons to hand. He mulled over his next words carefully before uttering them, Galadriel seeming in no hurry to push him.

“You are known, Lady, for your ability to see that which is hidden from other eyes. Do you know why my nephews are being attacked, but not me?”

He did not anticipate that she would truly have an answer, but the recent brushes with death had made him unwilling to turn aside from any possible source of information. As he waited, an air of sorrow seemed to gather around them, weighing upon Thorin’s spirit as the silence lengthened. As the last rays of sunlight gaze way to twilight’s gloom, the clearing they stood in lighting up with twinkling lamps and fireflies, the Lady of the Golden Wood refocused upon him.

“It is difficult for me to see, for I am of Illuvatar, not of Aulë, but I believe they are the cornerstone upon which rests the future of your people. You cannot be stopped, your destiny etched into the stone for all to see, but theirs has yet to be written.”

Thorin cursed softly at that, several pieces of the puzzle of current events falling too neatly into place at last. The answer had been in front of him the entire time; he’d just not had the wit to see it! The signs of Durin had been etched onto his tomb deep under the mountain, making the Lady’s words literally true, but the stones once closing Kili’s and Fíli’s graves were as yet blank. The traitors knew the two princes could be stopped!

“What of the time limit by which the cult believes they must stop us? Can anything hint at when this is?”

One eyebrow rose as the Lady’s lips twitched in amusement.

“Do you not already know the answer to that, Lord Durin? For the limit was not set by the dark warriors, but by actions of the one whose blood you carry.”

The blood he carried? This time, Thorin did not bother to stifle the groan or the bitter words of Khuzdul that rolled from his tongue. Durin’s Day! Without another word, the dwarf king inclined his head respectfully to Lady Galadriel and took his leave, mind swirling as if caught within a hurricane.


	26. Return to Mirkwood Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a trick is played.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

26\. Return to Mirkwood Forest

It had been two more days after the disturbing talk with the Lady before the dwarves had been ready to take their leave of the elven forest, despite a sudden impatience upon the part of Kíli. The young prince needed the time to once again regain strength, though he was unwilling to admit it, and the rest needed to regroup for the challenge ahead. The choice to go through the entire length of Mirkwood was not a popular one, but as none had come up with a workable alternative, they were resigned to it.

August had barely begun by the calendars of Men, Thorin judging that they had plenty of time to reach Erebor before the appointed day, even should the tangled limbs of Mirkwood add a month to the normal three weeks’ travel to the mountain. Legolas and Dwalin, to their mutual astonishment and disgust, had agreed with each other about the advisability of a few more days delay when both were consulted about the plan, much to the amusement of the others in the party. Far better

that they lose a little time now allowing for recovery then to lose more later to a severe illness when the young prince was pushed too far for his body to handle. Especially when they were far from help, deep within Mirkwood.

Once the delay had been decided upon, it was used to their advantage in other ways, as stores were carefully gone over to replenish medicines and other needed items from the stocks of the elves. In that generosity, even Glóin could find no fault with the Galadhrim, further adding to the old dwarf’s grumbling. Legolas had also spoken at length with his brethren, and then returned to press a small pouch of leather into Thorin’s hand. At the dwarf’s puzzled raised eyebrow, the elf shifted uncomfortably.

“It is an herb used occasionally in stews here. When burned in a fire, however, the scent given off is akin to that of a funeral pyre.”

Fíli, standing next to his uncle, had blanched, but took the packet grimly, willingly accompanying Thorin, Glóin, and Dwalin to a clearing the next day where a large false pyre could be raised. Thorin had found himself unable to throw the foul herbs in, finally handing them over to a stone-faced Dwalin and placing one arm around his blonde nephew, whose body shook with emotion he would not allow himself to express. As an uncle, he knew without words what visions of might have beens haunted his sister-son as they stood here.

All question about the necessity of the ruse, however, was gone upon the reports received that night. Elven scouts concealed in their tree perches upon the edges of the forest had spotted several men and one dwarf slinking away upon sight of the rising smoke with its tell-tale odor, thinking themselves unobserved. On the other side of the wood, near the path that once led to the doors of Moria, another small orc band bearing the sign of the White Hand had been surprised and destroyed by patrols. The hunters were gathered around the edges, waiting for their prey to emerge once more.

This had raised the other problem that Thorin had yet to find a solution to- Kíli. The dwarf could not walk all the way to the woods, nor could he be carried, and he was simply too easy to spot atop Mithril’s back. With the choice to go through the tangles of Mirkwood, only one pony could be brought, and they had settled upon Thorin’s mount as the surest of foot and strongest of those left. He, Dwalin, and Dis were debating this very problem when a grinning Gimli appeared at their sides.

“We have something to show you if you’ll follow me.”

Without stopping to see if they followed, the red-bearded warrior led the way a short distance to one of the other clearings, waving a hand at Fíli and Legolas, who stood next to a pack laden Mithril. The grey pony was standing placidly, two large packs pinioned to either side; another, wrapped in the odd silvery grey material favored by the elves, was across his back.

“’Tis a pony.”

Dwalin observed acidly to the younger dwarf, eyeing the beast. Thorin and Dis stayed silent, both wary at the sight of an entirely too smug Fíli, whom they had left in the company of his younger brother. It had never been normal to see one prince without the other, and now… Fíli’s face split into a grin at their suspicious looks, eyes sparkling as if he’d just pulled off the most intricate of practical jokes, and the pack upon the pony’s back began to… Laugh?

A hand pushed aside the fabric, dark hair spilling back as Kíli slowly straightened from where he’d lain across his mount’s back, concealed. It was a task made harder, of course, because the fool was howling with mirth the moment he caught sight of the faces of the three older dwarves; his brother, cousin, and their elven friend soon joining in the merriment.

“How?!”

The voices of Dwalin and Dis mingled in spluttered outrage, their demands for explanation having to wait until the miscreants regained their breath. Kíli finally answered for the others, grin still lighting up his face.

“Gimli was telling us about how the Rohirrim rode right past them when crossing Rohan because of the cloaks given the Fellowship in Lothlorien, so we decided to try this. We were hoping it would allow me to stay hidden until we were in Mirkwood.”

“Frodo swears it concealed him and Sam on a rocky slope in front of the Black Gate. Said some Southerners almost stepped on them even though they were right out in the open,” Gimli added with a shrug, “None of the watchers should be close enough to realize I’m not wearing it.”

“And it would be expected for us to have a pack pony at least as far as the forest.” Thorin concluded for them, giving a nod of satisfaction. “Well done, all of you.”

When the morning dawned to depart, however, it became obvious that the Lady Galadriel had heard of the intended ruse and concluded to add to it in her own way, beckoning to other elves bearing cloaks for the entire party as the dwarves paused to take their leave.

“In token of the pledge I made to you, Lord Durin, we provide these cloaks, which we have shared with outsiders but one other time in all our history. May they serve you well within the Greenwood.”

Her stress of the forest’s name reminded all that the wood had been returned to its old name, though Thorin doubted any of the dwarves would ever think of it as such. There was a stir among both parties as none immediately stepped forth to accept the new garb, Dwalin and Glóin both looking as if they’d rather touch orc gear than elven. It was Dis who stepped forward to break the awkwardness with a regal tilt of the head that emphasized the foolishness of the others’ reactions.

Thorin instantly had a flashback to his own response to being told Orcrist was elven made and had to grudgingly admire Gandalf’s restraint in not laughing at him. He’d acted as if the hilt bore a contagion! Nearby, Bofur proved he didn’t have anywhere near the massive discipline of a wizard, openly chuckling at the scene, while Fíli and Kíli attempted to cover their snickers.

“Gimli, son of Glóin,” The Lady gave a bow of the head to the elder dwarf, who scowled, before returning her gaze to the younger, “Last time we stood upon this shore, I asked what gift a dwarf would ask of an elf, and your reply was suitably humbling.”

“Now, Lady, I-“

A smile cut off Gimli’s flushed, fumbling reply, his hand pressing to his upper breast as if to ensure himself of the continued presence of something precious carried there. By the look upon his father’s face, whatever the younger dwarf had asked would not remain secret for long. The Lady waved forward two elves, who stopped in front of Gimli, and, to his surprise, Legolas.

“Accept these blades, forged in token of the friendship you have shown both our peoples can be revived, Gimli of Erebor and Legolas Greenleaf.”

Both were given daggers, hilts bearing the unusual golden tint of mallorn wood. As Legolas drew his to examine it, Thorin sucked in a startled breath, for etched upon the blade were ancient Khuzdul runes naming the bearer an ally of the dwarven people. It was an ancient inscription that only one among them would have told the Lady of, the king’s eye seeking out the red-bearded dwarf where he stood with the princes admiring his own blade. Gimli, to his credit, met his monarch’s eyes squarely, though with some apprehension until seeing Thorin’s small nod of approval. As a dwarf lord in his own right, it was within Gimli’s power to grant such a distinction and have it honored by his king, though Thorin could not recall any instance of it being given an elf other than Celebrimbor back in the Second Age.

Galadriel, however, was not finished, waiting until eyes were once more drawn to her.

“Kíli, Prince of Durin and Guardian of the Heart of the Mountain-“

Thorin lost track of what she was saying, seething inside at the trickery of elves, for none even within the party had yet openly spoken what the symbol upon Kili’s palm truly meant- that the prince was forever bound to the Arkenstone and the mountain. The Lady smiled slyly at him from the corner of her eye, vocal words being overridden by those he heard in his mind.

“Seldom does any event escape my gaze, Thorin Oakenshield, Durin Returned. You would do well to remember that.”

With her words came ghosting through his mind the image of his own company so long ago, sneaking unobserved from Rivendell- or so they thought. She had known, and approved, else they would not have set foot further upon the road to Erebor, he was now certain. A hand upon his arm giving it a gentle shake brought him back to the banks of the River Anduin to see that the others were gathering their things to load the barge waiting to bear them across the water, Kíli already concealed under his cloak. Beside him, Dis was regarding him with such concern that he gave her a small smile in reassurance.

“Are you well, brother? You grew pale.”

“Aye, I am well enough; the damn elf caught me by surprise is all. What did she give to Kíli? I was somewhat distracted.”

A roll of her eyes said that his evasion had not gone unnoted.

“Arrows forged by the smiths of Lorien. They are said to be more effective against any creatures of Mirkwood that yet retain the taint of Dol Guldur. She also gave Kifir a small training bow, much to the visible disgust of Glóin, Dwalin, and Nast. If you seriously mean to renew friendship with the elves of Lorien, that prejudice must be addressed.”

The unspoken ‘you fools’ made the king return her eye roll, for Dis had long railed against what she saw as unreasoning blind stubbornness upon his part. Thorin himself, however, was finding it difficult to reconcile his thoughts upon the matter, so he settled for pinning her with a faintly superior gaze.

“Renewing ancient ties with the Noldor here and other high elves such as Elrond is a completely different matter than relations with that treacherous fool in Mirkwood.”

“Nor is Legolas his father.”

“I never said he was, Dis.” He nodded to where the others now stood upon the barge, several staring at the royal siblings impatiently. “Come, they wait upon us.”

Now, meeting the gaze of the elf several hours later, the king conceded the truth of his sister’s words from earlier in the day with a thoughtful nod, unsurprised by the ease he felt at the inclusion of the prince in his small party. Their surroundings, however, were another matter entirely.

The first few miles into the tangle of Mirkwood were behind them, and already Thorin was questioning his own judgment in once again leading his company into such an ill-fated place. They had stopped in a small clearing to allow Kíli to come out of hiding, the young prince needing the aid of his mother and brother to sit upright after hours prone under the cloak across the back of his pony.

“Alright? Or do you want to dismount for a few moments?”

Fíli’s soft question was met with a shake of the head from his brother. Kili’s face was red with a combination of heat, sweat, and his cramped posture of the last four hours, but Thorin was encouraged by a lack of further signs of distress in the younger dwarf. Once more, a fever had been lingering, which both Thorin and Dis now suspected was a remnant of the power that must have surged through the prince to heal him. Nonetheless, the dwarf king was determined to keep a close eye upon his sister-son, knowing Kili’s stubborn determination not to further slow their journey would prevent him from stating when he could not keep pace. Well, his uncle would simply ensure that travel was easy enough that it would not unnecessarily fatigue the prince, even if that meant more time in this cursed wood, deadline be damned.


	27. The Legacy of Durin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin starts to realize what it means to be Durin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

27\. The Legacy of Durin

For all their relief upon reaching the wood without another attack, Fíli walking protectively in a tight ring of other dwarves acting literally as a living shield, it was immediately apparent that this was not a place that the living were welcome within. The air was still, with a heaviness that pressed upon the chest as they sought to breathe, and the odor of rotting vegetation added to the misery. No squirrels chattered from branches here, nor do birds sing a merry song on a late summer day. Even the bugs, usually an annoyance that Thorin would be glad to be rid of, were missed in this place. Silently, the king waved once more to the elven prince, company trudging onward in a small cluster. Predictably, it was Bofur who broke the gloomy stillness as his foot slipped upon something unseen, landing him on his knees with a disgusting squelch, hat flying off to rest at the king’s feet.

“Father! Are you alright?”

Kifir was quick to dart around his monarch to his father’s side, Thorin shoving the ugly head covering at the wide-eyed youngster before offering a hand to his old companion. Bofur grimaced, brushing futilely at the half liquid rotted remains covering his leggings with one hand while cramming the hat back on its customary perch with the other.

“Aye, I’m fine, son.” The toymaker waved a hand vaguely at their surroundings, “This looks depressingly familiar, doesn’t it, lads?”

Glóin, scowl visible even through the white beard, planted his ax handle in the ground, leaning upon the head with a glower at their guide.

“Aye, all that’s missin’ are the bloody spiders! This isn’t cleansed; we’ve been played for fools! Probably meant to lead us in here and leave us to rot, that would please His High and Mighty Papa, wouldn’t it? What do you have to say now, elf?”

The tall elven prince’s face hardened at the harsh words, a hand upon the shoulder of his dwarven friend stopping Gimli before the other could confront his father once more. A small shake of Thorin’s black mane warned the rest of the party not to intervene. This was no longer the young dwarfling who hung upon a single word of praise from his parent, but a warrior, tempered in the unforgiving fury of battle, unbendingly standing up for the one he’d trusted with his very life. Glóin had best tread carefully, Thorin noted silently, for few ties were as strong as those created between shield brothers.

“I would say that you do not listen, dwarf. The Lady herself said that while she had cast down the remnants of Dol Guldur, the taint has seeped into the very ground in this part of the forest. It cannot be healed overnight. The visible taint will lessen as we move north.” Narrowed icy eyes pinned the old warrior in his tracks. “My name is Legolas, not ‘elf’, be so kind as to use it.”

“We will use your name, princeling, but whether it will be as a curse or in friendship has yet to be seen.”

Thorin almost groaned aloud as Dwalin drew even with his cousin, posture all but screaming that the large dwarf was anticipating battle. His target, by contrast, appeared unphased and even a bit amused, merely raising an eyebrow.

“And upon what would you base this judgment, Warmaster?”

The use of titles was coldly formal, definitely not an attitude befitting an ally. On the other hand, the king noted ruefully to himself as he heard Dwalin’s soft mutter, formality was better than open insult. It was as well that Legolas did not understand Khuzdul, though he may have heard that one flung at him previously in the dungeons of the elven palace. Instead, the elf retightened his grip upon his fiery friend lest the other attack the antagonistic older dwarf, a move that would have ended in grief for all concerned.

“It’ll be open warfare in a moment. Shouldn’t we stop this?”

Fíli’s mutter in his ear was thankfully too low for any of the others to hear. The king murmured his reply equally quietly, eyes never leaving the stiff figures in front of him.

“No. This would’ve come out no matter what we do. Better they confront one another here than deep in the woods where we would be hopelessly lost should Legolas leave.”

Not that he believed that the tall prince would do such a thing. As contradictory as the notions of ‘elf’ and ‘honorable’ together seemed, Thorin could find no more befitting words for the other. By consenting to lead the party through the Woodland Realm, the elven prince was no doubt openly defying what he knew to be his father’s will on the matter. Thranduil would not be pleased to see Thorin Oakenshield alive once more, or to learn of his son’s part in that return. With a start, the dwarf found his attention drawn back to the antagonists in time to hear the end of Dwalin’s answer.

“-our trust. The truth, elf! How could Thranduil possibly explain throwing those he’d once pledged alliance to in his dungeon for nothing more than being travelers upon the road? And don’t give me some diplomatic dragon’s dung, either!”

“Very well.” The elven prince inclined his head regally, gaze sweeping across the dwarves until lighting upon the king and the two princes. “I will not pretend that much of the incident was not spurred by my father’s injured pride and desire for revenge. He has never felt himself given the honor he is due by the other elven leaders because most of our people are Silvan, and to have Thrór, a dwarf, then demand tribute… He seized the opportunity to humiliate those of Thrór’s line in return.”

Thorin gave one short nod in acknowledgement, not at all surprised that the hatred between the two royal houses played into the situation.

“Thranduil repaid that insult to his overly tender feelings a thousand fold when he watched hundreds die in the Fall of Erebor. We will not repeat history here.” The king cut in before the others could launch into complaints or a rehashing of the dwarven side of the feud. “And? You implied that there was more.”

The elf took in a deep, slow breath, and then met the king’s eyes squarely.

“Fear.”

“What?!” Several of the party spoke with varying degrees of disbelief and outrage, Kili’s question summing up their feelings well. “What could he possibly have had to fear from thirteen half-dead, reeling dwarves?”

“You must understand, our realm was already one existing under siege, each day a struggle to protect our people. Then, Saruman came, telling my father of your intentions to retake the mountain, and claimed that if you were allowed to continue, it would only bring more darkness down upon the forest. If you were stopped, however, Dol Guldur might once more become quiet, its taint contained to the southern lands. I had thought to speak sense to him after the White Wizard’s departure, but with the sight of you, he refused to listen.”

“Then why do you help us now? Your father will not thank you.”

Fíli’s question was one that the king himself had desired to ask since Legolas consented to guide them several days before. The elf, at first, looked as if he would refuse to answer, but at last acknowledged the right of the other prince to make such an inquiry with a short nod of the head.

“My duty is to my king, yes, but it is first to my people, and they are ill-served by the continuing battle between us. Someone needed to take that first step, for both our kingdoms. And…there was Gimli.”

“Me?” The other dwarf spoke up incredulously, “What did I do? We were both being stubborn idiots the entire way through Hollin, hassling each other at every turn. You would not speak my name until after- Moria.”

The name outsiders had given to their ancient realm was spoken softly, a certainty of revelation there that the others did not follow, though Legolas was nodding.

“Aye. For the first time, I saw the splendor that your people had once known, saw the grief of one who has lost kin and it was like unto my own. The Woodland Realm was not always a place of darkness hidden within the forest, but once bore a similar beauty to that of Lothlorien in its own way, before my mother was torn from us by the growing evil of Sauron. Suddenly, my friend, you were no longer a dwarf, but an individual named Gimli who happened to be born of that race, and once more I was forced to confront my own prejudice and blindness, as I had to when a young dwarven archer saved my life on the battle plain before Erebor. I fear that the dwarves are not the only race prone to unreasoning stubbornness.”

It was a rueful acknowledgement, edges of Legolas’ lips twitching at the use of one of the favorite complaints about dwarves applied to his own people. Thorin found himself smiling ever so slightly in return, one of the only spots of lightness for him in days, the revelations of the Lady Galadriel still haunting his thoughts as the voices of Durin whispered in his ear.

Thorin’s unease did not lighten again anytime soon. Over the next two days, the forest continued to deteriorate the closer they drew to the ruins of Dol Guldur, the ruin easily spotted atop its hill to the west through one of the few breaks in the forest covering. The tall spires were gone, of course, cast down in the final days of the War of the Ring by the Lady Galadriel, the foul breeding pits below opened to the cleansing light of day for the first time. It was those, still smoking away the defilement, which so easily marked the spot for all to see. The strongest, and oldest, of Celeborn’s people kept watch there, trying to keep away any animals or remnants of dark creatures who might be drawn to the remains until it was finished. That, according to Galadriel, would be some time; the presence of both Sauron and the Witch-King of Angmar within the ruin at various times ensuring the darkness was deep.

None talked in above a low tone in the heavy gloom, and that seldom as the heat held in by the canopy of leaves ensured all energy must be conserved for walking. Even Kíli, riding Mithril, had sweat pouring down his still too pale face, legs trembling almost unto collapse whenever they paused for rest. Some of the discomfort, of course, was the heavy armor worn by all the dwarves. Kifir was the first to shed such weight upon the urging of his father, who soon removed much of his own clothing, including, miraculously enough, the infamous hat. Only light mail shirts were kept on, a process that Dwalin observed with a heavy frown, but did not speak out against, even when Nast and Gimli followed suit upon their next halt. Thorin simply stiffened his back and endured, as was proper for one of the Line of Durin, but made a mental note to speak with the elf about their water supplies. All would need to take care to remain hydrated, especially the three youngest, and they could not do that if there were no place to replenish that vital liquid.

Adding to the king’s distraction were the whisperings within. Now that Galadriel had called his attention to the phenomenon, he could feel the memories and attitudes not his own clashing within, struggling to make themselves heard. And it scared him like no other event in his long life, not even the sight of the orc and goblin hoards streaming from the gates of Moria or the pounding of the dragon upon Erebor’s mighty door.

Prince and King of the House of Durin, heir to all the ancient secrets of the Longbeard clan, protector and guide to his people in exile – it was the identity that defined him for as long as he could remember, and he was secure in that

knowledge. Every step he took, each decision and action, reaction, spoken word, hopes and dreams deep in his soul, it was all predicated upon that sense of self, and he knew no other way to be. To have that very core shaken and threatened with change to which he had not consented and could not stop… it was terrifying, even if the changes were the single most important legacy his people had left to them. As the experiences of those who came before him were integrated into his very being, would anything remain of Thorin Oakenshield or would that identity be forgotten in favor of Durin VII and Last, Returned?

That was not a thought that sat well with the proud dwarf, though he acknowledged the probable truth of it. Upon the other hand, was this not just one more duty that he must do for his people? The most powerful, darkest enemies facing all the races of Middle Earth were cast down, this was undeniably true, but that did not guarantee peace and plenty for all, especially for the dwarves.

The Khazad had spent too many years as wanderers without homes to call their own, for the dwarves of Erebor had not been the first even in recent times to lose their home. The Broadbeams and Firebeards had all but disappeared as separate clans, maintaining a small joint kingdom in the northern lands where they dwelt in the ice and snow, the rest of their people so intermarried with the Longbeards that they had foresworn their old allegiances.

The Ironfists and the Blacklocks of the East dwelt far from most other races, and seldom came to gatherings of the people, which is why Thorin had been so surprised that any envoys had shown to the meeting in Ered Luin. They were a secretive bunch, and distrusted by most other dwarves, even the Stonefoots and Stiffbeards, their eastern neighbors. Would they, at last, acknowledge the one foretold to unite the Khazad and return them to the glory of Khazad-dûm, where once dwelt representatives of all seven clans, or were they too corrupted by close association with the Easterlings? Thorin had seen some of the armor and weapons captured in the battle before Gondor’s capital, recognized the smith work as nothing forged by the hand of Men. Had greed alone overwhelmed their scruples, or was it an open alliance?

Last night, the dreams, memories, of strange times and places, had begun to haunt him, leaving the king shaken in the morning light, touchy and tired. He’d snapped at Dis when she expressed the simple concern of a sister, and now she was giving him a wide berth, walking with Bofur and Kifir. His sister-sons, too, had been treated to the sharp end of his tongue, though he’d been properly chastened by the wounded look crossing Kili’s face and the instant darkening of Fíli’s.

Dwalin and Glóin, of course, had read the signs easily; long familiarity with their royal cousin leading both to leave him well alone, so now only the red-bearded Gimli strode near enough for conversation, the princes directly behind them. That one was having his own troubles, caught between his friendship and his family, but once they returned to the mountain, his mother would no doubt aid in the situation. Svass had never suffered the temper of Glóin quietly when she believed her husband to be acting the fool, and women were not so plentiful among the Khazad that any mate would disregard her opinions lightly. No, so long as the anger and mistrust did not offer additional burdens to the rest of the company, Thorin would not interfere there, and had already warned Dis to do the same.

The sharp, unmistakable cracking of bone underfoot and the muffled cry of his current companion brought the king out of his thoughts to an odd sight. Gimli was twisting around in an odd, mincing step; focus completely upon the ground to the point where he backed into Fíli, the blonde catching his cousin before the other could land on the ground.

“What’s wrong, Gimli? What did you step on?”

The younger prince had leaned down over the neck of his mount to examine the forest floor as his brother questioned the other. Suddenly, Kíli straightened up with a smile and a shake of his wild dark hair, eyes dancing with mirth.

“’Tis nothing but a bunch of old bones, cousin. What is the matter with you?”

Gimli straightened and huffed at that, glaring at the mounted dwarf, who’d begun to chuckle.

“Took me by surprise is all. What’s so funny about that?”

Kili’s grin widened as the others gathered around, Legolas, curiously enough, coming to stand behind his dwarven friend once more, a hand upon his shoulder.

“You should’ve seen your face! I thought you’d swallowed a bug or something!”

Fíli, too, was now smiling, giving his cousin a clout upon the shoulder.

“He’s right that was a fairly unique reaction, my friend.”

That received a snort and roll of the eyes from the red-bearded warrior.

“I’d have liked to see how the two of you would react if you’d had to follow Aragorn through the Paths of the Dead. Not only were we walking upon the very remains of the ones we hoped to persuade to fight upon our side, but then we were buried in an avalanche of their skulls! Surrounded by their ghosts at every turn! Still gives me a chill just to speak of it!” The two princes sobered quickly, the younger with a look of concerned contrition upon his face, but Gimli ignored that, turning to poke a stubby finger firmly into the side of the elf behind him. “And as for you…don’t think I didn’t know you were laughing at me the entire time, too!”

Legolas’ lips twitched, but he managed to face the other squarely.

“Only because I knew that you suffered no real injury, my friend, and only as I recall the incident now, safely removed from it.”

“Humpf.”

Gimli stalked past them, only to immediately have Glóin and Dwalin to either side, demanding elaboration upon the incident, voices soon too low and far ahead for Thorin to make out. He, by contrast, was standing in the path with his arms folded, a stern censure upon his features as he faced his sister-sons.

“While I applaud the two of you upon the masterful diversion,” Let them be fully aware that they’d not sneak anything past their uncle just because they were grown! “I suggest that you be a little less…spirited in the teasing of your cousin. It is a long journey still to Erebor.”

Without waiting for an answer, he swung around, one hand upon his sister’s shoulder drawing her with him. Just behind, however, he could hear the soft, astonished exchange between the brothers.

“He did not- Did Uncle truly just say ‘spirited’?”

“I do believe he did, little brother.”

“Is Durin allowed to have a sense of humor?”


	28. A Short Respite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an explanation is offered and Gimli has a bad day. 
> 
> Oops! Thank you and I apologize for posting the same chapter twice! Scribe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

28\. A Short Respite

It had been yet another long day of walking through the endless gloom of the forest with nothing but a cold camp and dark night to look forward to for the party. Even Glóin, the acknowledged master of fire starting, could not keep a flame alight with only damp, rotted wood picked from the trail as they walked, and none were so foolhardy as to even suggest that they cut live wood. The trees here harbored an anger to them that was not hard for any to feel, a constant source of irritation for nerves already stretched taut, leaping at every creak and groan resounding through the otherwise deathly still surroundings. There had been some areas, however, where patches of green grew fresh and bright, the trees seeming to lean eagerly toward the sun instead of hovering over any who walked beneath, a sign, according to Legolas, that the land was beginning to heal. For the dwarves, it had simply been a relief, calling their brief rest stops by silent mutual concord in these rare spots.

Another positive development had been the finding of a stream of clear, clean water running down from the mountains that divided Mirkwood still many days travel to the north. Legolas had been skeptical at first, but a cautious trial had proven the water fit for dwarf, elf, and pony. The party had immediately filled any containers that they had capable to carrying water, and drunk their fill themselves, the cold biting at dry throats as they gulped. Afterwards, they had all taken the time to wash away the sweat and grime of travel, Dis producing a bar of soap from her pack that instantly caused a feud over who took precedence in its use. Thorin had settled that one readily enough by simply grabbing the thing and tossing it to Fíli and Kíli, none about to dispute the right of the two princes. Besides, the feel of the cold on their skin was more refreshing in some ways than a long night’s sleep, leaving everyone in a much cheerier frame of mind. Just because they frequently ignored quite a bit of filth as the price of travel did not mean that dwarves were habitually sloppy!

Even the hard travel food, then, could not dampen the spirits at camp that night, the group sitting around and talking for a while instead of immediately collapsing to sleep, as they had most other nights. In the rapidly falling gloom, Legolas moved lithely among the seated dwarves, pouring a small amount of something into the palm of each person’s hand with a few soft words before going to the next. Thorin grimaced in distaste, knowing exactly what the other must have, though he was grateful that the elven prince, at least, had the foresight to bring it. The elf approached the four members of Erebor’s royal family last, pouring twice the amount of white crystals into Kili’s hand than he had anyone else’s. The prince looked askance at the stuff for a long moment, but at his uncle’s purposeful nod, he took some upon the tip of his tongue only to twist away, attempting to spit the biting stuff out.

“Salt! Why did you give me salt, Legolas?!”

“Eat it.”

Thorin growled, catching the younger dwarf’s hand before he could discard the precious substance. A nod at the elven prince invited him to join them, the elf sinking with unnatural grace to sit upon the ground next to his dwarven counterparts.

“The heat, right?” Fíli asked as he took a long sip of water to wash the taste from his mouth. “We sweat too much and we’ll be sick unless we replace the salt in our bodies.”

“You are correct, Fíli.” The pale blonde seemed surprised at such knowledge displayed by the other. “I had not thought to find mountain-bred dwarves so versed in heat survival.”

Thorin merely grunted, exchanging glances with Dis that spoke of haunting memories from long ago.

“We learned those lessons at too high a cost during the years of wandering not to ensure they were passed on to the next generation. Or at least we tried!”

Though the explanation offered by the princess was addressed to Legolas, her youngest son found himself on the receiving end of a stern reproving motherly gaze. The brunette flushed, head dropping so that his face was screened by his long hair, and proceeded to almost choke on the last of his salt. Fíli grabbed the other with a chuckle, patting his back as he coughed and spluttered on the quickly offered water.

“This one wasn’t the greatest at paying attention to what didn’t peek his interest, no matter how much Balin scolded.”

Kíli raised his head at the teasing, frowning at his older brother, who simply smirked back.

“Come on, Fíli, when were we ever likely to need to know how to survive in the southern lowlands? We weren’t even allowed out of the Blue Mountains until we went to take back Erebor!”

A huge yawn cut off anything more the younger prince would have said, eyelids drooping even as he summoned the energy to reach over and give the blonde a shove. Fíli shook his head good naturedly, beads on the ends of his mustache braids swinging, and guided his little brother into laying down on his bedroll. As he had since they had arrived in this new time, Kíli fell almost instantly into sleep, betraying the level of exhaustion that the other attempted to hide from his family. Fíli turned back to the others with a sigh, worry lines easing from his brow at his mother’s reassuring squeeze of his shoulder.

“How much longer before we reach the first of the areas where he won’t be able to ride?”

Legolas did not pause for thought, telling the dwarves that this was more than likely one of the topics he’d come over to discuss.

“Tomorrow, at the pace that we have been setting. The pony will be able to handle baggage, which will allow us to walk unburdened, but it will not be safe for a rider.”

Thorin swore softly, seeing his dismay reflected in the faces of Fíli and Dis. They’d hoped to have a bit more time for Kíli to regain strength before testing the young dwarf with that. True, the brunette had walked unaided around camp for the last several days, at least in the morning, but by evening he was dependent upon the crutches once more, if he was up to moving about at all.

“It would aid the lad considerably were he to remove some of that armor, Thorin. He’s struggling as it is.”

Glóin’s suggestion was logical, Thorin noted as the others moved a bit closer to the group, sensing that this was a topic upon which all opinions would be at least heard by their leader. Voices were kept low out of deference to the sleeping prince, though Kíli didn’t even stir when Dwalin tripped and almost landed on him trying to step over the recumbent body. Bofur and Nast were nodding their own agreement when Thorin sighed heavily, pointing out the detraction to that.

“To do so risks his life by leaving him too open to attack. That mithril chain he wears does not cover enough.”

Especially not when their opponents had already shown a preference for assassins’ weapons and ambushes. Gimli, however, was shaking his head, lips pursed worriedly.

“In this heat and then asking him to walk… Thorin, you risk his life more surely by not doing so. We are deep within the forest now, and Legolas has seen no signs of anyone about but us. Better to face the danger you know is in front of you than obsess about what may or may not lurk behind.”

“Aye, and Kíli can always put his heavier layers back on as we go north, closer to the mountain and danger.” Bofur added, hands idly carving at a block of wood without even looking at it, “That leather coat of his and the vambraces, at least, should be put aside for now. Fíli, you too, lad. Heat exhaustion can kill as swiftly and surely as the deadliest arrow.”

Thorin hesitated, eyes seeking out those closest to him, the reasoning of the others infallible, and yet… The part of him clearly labeled “Uncle Thorin” wanted nothing more than to wrap both his sister-sons in so many layers of protection that nothing, not even air, was able to get through to them if it showed the slightest hostile intent. The idea of voluntarily asking them to give up even what shields they did have…

Dis was no help, the fear in her face clearly paralyzing her as to the best course of action, one hand restlessly smoothing Kili’s wild dark hair from where it had fallen into his face. Fíli was watching her actions, but turned at the feel of his uncle’s eyes on him, giving a reluctant nod. Dwalin, too, caught his gaze, large head nodding assent with the others. Legolas broke the silence reluctantly, hesitant yet after the confrontations of several days past.

“I, too, would urge that you consider this, Lord Thorin. It was an issue that I sought to raise with you myself, as I have seen many of the race of Men and even some of my own kin who would’ve already succumbed to such maladies. That the princes have not speaks to the strength of your people, but it would be unwise to push them further when it is unnecessary.”

“Can you swear that no enemy will come upon us unawares while within these woods? Truly?”

There were several gasps of disbelief at the image of a dwarf- especially this one- asking such an assurance from an elf and actually placing faith in it, but the king ignored the others, focus solely upon Legolas. Whispers in his soul urged him to set aside past grievances, to trust this once, and he would not be betrayed. To place the most precious things he had, the lives of Fíli and Kíli, in the hands of the elven prince would be the step needed to begin reconciliation between their peoples.

“None can truly swear as to what awaits, Thorin Oakenshield, but I will give the same pledge once given by Aragorn to the hobbit, Frodo Baggins. If by my life or death I can protect them, I will.”

“Very well.”

With those two grudging, yet simple words, Durin Returned set his feet once more to the path of destiny.


	29. Princes of Erebor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a prince is marked and a kingdom claimed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

29\. Princes of Erebor

Thorin could only stare with utter dismay at the sight before him- twisted branches and roots erupting from the ground, rocks piled atop one another and intertwined with the trees, and the path that they followed, heading right into the middle of it. There was simply no way that the pony would be able to walk that with a rider, and yet, the dwarven king despaired of asking his younger nephew to attempt it on his own. A glance back to where Fíli and Kíli stood showed the dismay on the face of the elder and the sheer terror shining in the dark eyes of the younger, but Thorin knew that there was no other choice.

This was the one safe path that currently led through the northern edge of the area previously controlled by Dol Guldur and to the pass through the mountains of Mirkwood. Any other way, of which there were several, would necessarily involve leaving the dubious shelter of the forest for several days’ travel, a risk that they dared not take with the lives of the princes.

Both younger dwarves had gratefully stripped off layers of leather and metal this morning, leaving them in simple tunics with light mithril chain hidden underneath, a fragile layer upon which to bet their lives if the company should be attacked once more. Kíli met his blue gaze resolutely as he slipped from Mithril’s back, his older brother’s hand under his elbow to steady him, and gave a nod. If sheer determination were the only factor here, there would not be an obstacle able to stop that one. Unfortunately, even the bodies of dwarves were not made of such steel.

“Fíli!” The blonde’s head shot up at his uncle’s call. “Stay with your brother and keep an eye upon him!”

The return glare that the uncle received needed no interpretation, a muffled laugh at his elbow making the king turn to his little sister with a roll of the eyes for her sons’ behavior. Reaching out, he gently tugged upon one of the once dark braids now a silvery grey.

“Quiet, you. Let’s go.”

Throughout the day, Thorin resolutely kept to the front of the group, refusing to look back even when he heard the distinctive sound of a falling body, the soft encouragement of Bofur, and the fierce swearing of his elder nephew. He could not bear to see the struggle his younger sister-son was undoubtedly finding the trail or he knew in his heart that he

would put a stop to the journey in that instant. Instead, his head replayed over and over the images of the two, blonde and brunette, falling to their foes, laid to rest in cold stone beneath an unforgiving mountain, and continued on.

By evening, they had come perhaps five miles, a fraction of the distance that they had been covering daily, even in the forest, but half the distance to the end of this almost impassable tangle. All were exhausted, stumbling about camp as they began routine chores that could now be done almost asleep on their feet. It was only when he had seen this that the king had the courage to turn and seek out his nephews.

As expected, the two stood together, Kíli supported upon his crutches as he gasped and panted, sweat pouring down an alarmingly pale face. Even as their uncle approached, he saw the supports wobble and Kíli would have met the ground with bruising force had Fíli not been prepared for just such an eventuality, catching and easing the other down.

Two fast steps had Thorin by their sides, making quick work of laying out the bedroll attached to the younger prince’s pack, Dis joining the three only moments later. There was a glazed daze in Kili’s brown eyes that was alarming, breaths still coming in shallow pants, telltale signs of heat exhaustion. Before the king could say a word, his sister was snapping orders with all the authority of her bloodline.

“Fíli, help me get this tunic and his mail shirt off. Thorin, see if there is any fresh water nearby. I know he can’t drink it, but it might be cooler than what we’re carrying. We have to cool him down, now!”

Dwarves scattered in every direction, even those whom she had not addressed tripping over one another in their haste to aid in any way they could. It was with relief that Thorin was then able to settle back beside his nephews as someone shouted that they would retrieve the water, helping to support the limp body of the youngest as they once again stripped clothes from him. Kili’s eyelids were barely open as the older dwarf took a clean cloth and soaked it in some of their drinking water, holding it to dry lips. He could see the mortification the younger dwarf was suffering, being manhandled as a child would be yet another time, but it could not be helped.

“Suck on the cloth, Kíli. That’s it.”

As much as Thorin longed to give his sister-son all the water that he could drink, he knew that to reintroduce liquid that quickly would only make the other ill. The thudding of dwarven boots on the hard ground alerted him to Kifir and Gimli returning with water at a run, the cold a distinct shock against Thorin’s skin as he soaked several clothes and placed them along the overheated body. On the other side, Fíli was carefully working powerful fingers into muscles visibly cramping in his brother’s arms and legs, his own jaw bunching tighter at each knot worked loose.

Finally, after perhaps half an hour of such treatment, Kíli was lying on his brother’s bedroll, his own having been soaked, watching those around him. As Fíli aided him to sip yet more water, the brunette at last gave a small smile, hand pressing something into his brother’s free hand, and allowed himself to slip into sleep. Not surprisingly, that was when the long awaited eruption spewed forth from the blonde who’d been so anxiously attentive only moments before. With a low growl of frustration, the older prince surged to his feet, blue eyes blazing at his uncle, one hand clutching the Arkenstone so tightly Thorin almost thought he meant to pitch the thing at him.

“You cannot ask Kíli to continue like this tomorrow! He will push himself to collapse again or worse to keep from letting you down and not once did you even turn to check on him!”

Thorin allowed no hint of how deeply those words wounded to show upon his face, meeting his nephew’s fury with ice calm sternness.

“It is for him that I do this, and for you! It is not I who will sit upon the throne of Erebor!”

Muffled gasps from around them told him that the others yet listened, but the dwarf king no longer cared. The time for such secrecy was past, the forest holding no unfriendly ears to take advantage of the information. Indeed, if some had not

yet guessed the true situation, they deserved such a rude awakening for not using their heads! The blonde, however, was not about to back down this time.

“We know that, but I would rather have my brother at my side in exile than to sit beside an empty seat! Twice now we have almost lost him, thrice if you count the flood, and now you risk his life for the sake of speed?”

“For the sake of our people! Have you given thought as to what may happen should we not reach the mountain by Durin’s Day? And the Death Warriors succeed in whatever they plan?”

“Of course we have, you taught us our responsibility to our people, uncle, but killing him through exhaustion will not aid anyone but our enemies! We would do better to take time now, and make it up when he can ride Mithril!”

“He speaks truly, Thorin.”

The four quiet words in the familiar deep rumble at his elbow brought him up short, knowing what it took Dwalin to speak out against his oldest friend and liege. The king turned toward the old warrior, the slightest nod acknowledging the advice as he forced his temper down, recognizing what had truly been spurring him this day. Fear. They were in a narrow path, with few places to turn aside or hide from their enemies, and the princes walked with little protection, making this an ideal spot for an ambush. Legolas, however, seemed to be reading the king’s thoughts, for he shook his head.

“Lord Celeborn tasked his scouts to keep watch upon the forest’s borders south of the mountains. Your enemies will not easily slip past such sentinels.”

Thorin bit back a sarcastic retort, having known about but dismissed the elven scouts. He was not about to rely upon others to ensure the safety of his nephews! Turning back, he was slightly amused to note that Glóin now glowered at the older prince.

“I assumed that Thorin would be taking the throne in Erebor!”

Dis rolled her eyes at their merchant cousin, though it was Bofur who snorted derisively before answering the other, the common miner’s son having a better grasp of the politics at work than one of the bloodline of Durin, albeit not of the ruling house. The slight glint in his eye reminded Thorin that his blood, too, traced to the halls of their ancient realm deep under the Misty Mountains.

“Thorin will be busy takin’ back his own throne in Moria, of course! ‘Tis where Durin has always ruled.”

“After I have dealt with our current enemies, yes.”

There was an ominous promise to that dark statement, rage burning deep within the king for any who would dare raise their hands against Durin’s Folk. The Death Warriors had hidden themselves successfully once; they would not be given the opportunity to do so again. Glóin crossed his arms, eyes narrowing as he regarded first his king and then the older prince before relaxing slightly with a satisfied huff.

“Then Fíli will take the throne?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Thorin was immediately and firmly contradicted by his older sister-son, leading him to raise an eyebrow at the other in a silent demand for an explanation. Fíli had always been raised with the knowledge that his duty and path would be to follow his uncle, now even more so; to have that suddenly rejected was not in the plan.

“I will not be king.”

The blonde stated his position firmly, meeting the gazes of shock with a calm determination, turning to his gaping mother last.

“Fíli! You cannot mean-“

“It is not what you assume, Mother. Kíli and I have talked this through. We have seen the divisions within Durin’s Folk caused by having more than one king, and it almost led to disaster for our people. How many would be alive today had the Iron Hills offered sanctuary to our people after Smaug, and not spurned us? Thrór would not bow to another, and so led our people to slaughter outside our ancestral gates! And do you truly think that I, the one who has not been chosen by the Arkenstone, could claim to rule when my younger brother bears the Heart of the Mountain?”

Thorin bit back harsh words of frustration, recognizing the truth in his older heir’s speech. The sign of the mountain’s favor was not only very visible upon his skin, all knew that the younger prince had been shot with a fatal arrow; it wouldn’t take a scholar to reason out why the dwarf was still alive- the Arkenstone wanted him that way. There was no hint of anger or jealousy to Fíli’s face, however, just a calm, proud tilt to the chin so very familiar to his uncle. Not even the anger that had been there to start with remained. At this moment, the young golden haired dwarf looked every inch the prince and leader of his people that he had always been meant to be, voice holding the others spellbound with the utter surety of one born to rule.

“You mean to join Thorin in Moria, then?”

Dwalin’s question was hushed, respectful in a way he’d never before accorded his best friend’s heirs, clearly recognizing something within the other as well. Was this, then, what Balin had seen that long ago day of such sorrow outside the gates of Moria? If so, it was clear now why he had put his faith in a prince who had not yet reached adulthood, for Thorin would be hard pressed to argue any decision that Fíli made right now, his aura of authority was that strong! His sister-son’s bearing reminded the king so strongly of his grandfather before the madness took him that it was almost a physical blow, though the other’s coloring and gentle spirit were the rich gold of his grandmother.

“I did not say that, either, Dwalin.”

That was as well; a voice whispered within Thorin that allowing Fíli or Kíli to be at his side permanently in Moria was to invite disaster down upon their people. Though he addressed the old warrior, the prince kept his eyes locked with those of his merchant cousin.

“As I said, my brother and I have discussed this and come to a decision that we believe is in the best interests of our people. There will no longer be a King in Erebor. We will rule, jointly, as Princes of the Blood of Durin, sworn to King Durin VII Returned of Khazad-dûm, even as the Princes of Ithilien and Arnor rule for King Elessar of Gondor.”

As the last syllable was uttered, the prince gave a gasp, handing jerking open to drop the Heart of the Mountain as he stared at his palm in shock. Once again, the stone cast its own light about the clearing, bouncing once to roll until it stopped against the hand of the other prince, who gathered it to himself, brown eyes open a narrow slit to watch his sibling with a small smile. As Fíli swallowed hard, Dis shot to his side in one long stride, taking the palm in her own and giving a low snort of satisfaction. Her son allowed the princess to hold it up for all to see; upon Fíli’s palm was the brand of a prince’s circlet, the outline of the mountain behind it. The Arkenstone had once more made its will plain, Thorin pressing lips firmly over the concerns swirling in his mind. A low chuckle broke the stunned stillness after several minutes, a grin splitting Gimli’s red beard as his eyes sparkled.

“Very good, cousin. An elegant solution, though I have one question. Was it the two of you who put the notion to Aragorn or are you borrowing from him?”

Fíli allowed a small smirk to play at the corners of his lips, though his stance did not relax, gaze once more holding Glóin’s, the older dwarf’s reaction being the key as to whether the solution would be workable. As a lord of Durin’s line,

Glóin would hold sway over many of the nobles within the realm, a reality Dain had recognized clearly when he placed the fiery dwarf on the King’s Council. Now, Fíli sought that influence in favor of himself and his brother.

“It was a mutual invention, cousin, though we’d not thought to apply it to Erebor until it became clear to Kíli and me that Thorin would never rule there. Aragorn started the notion with his worry that the people of Gondor would not respect a Steward now that the King had returned, especially as he plans to spend half his year in each kingdom. Kíli pointed out that there can only be one king, but there are no such restrictions upon princes.”

Now Fíli’s eyes swept all of them, settling at last upon his uncle, Thorin’s own visage still showing his misgivings.

“We both know our weaknesses, uncle, know that should one or the other be forced to the throne alone, it would be a disaster, but that together, we can be the leaders our people need. It is akin to how we fight- I provide the solid defense and the control, the planning, while Kíli is flexible, adapting tactics and weaponry as needed around me, finding the opening to attack and having the daring to push us into it.” Fíli paused, staring with bemusement at the mark upon his palm before holding it out toward the party once more. “I am the head, the brains and the caution, steady as the mountain itself, while Kíli is the heart, the fiery core and passion. We need one another to balance ourselves and lead well.”

That insightful analogy delivered in a cool, steady tone reassured Thorin in a way nothing else his heirs could have said would, showing a maturity and awareness of self indispensable in a true leader. Their natural interactions would dictate that Fíli take the lead in this, as well, until Kíli had learned what was needed for the role thrust upon him. In most cases, such a divided rule would be inherently unstable, causing Thorin to reject the notion out of hand, but Fíli’s reasoning was sound. Besides, it felt… true, as if this path was the one that had been marked for the two since the younger’s birth, the intent behind the unusual closeness, the unity they shared. Glancing around, the king could tell that he was not the only one sharing that insight.

Dwalin had his arms crossed, a smug pride upon his face at the words of his former pupil, while Bofur grinned outright, and Dis was hastily wiping at tears only a mother could put true meaning to. Nast, interestingly enough, just grunted and nodded, as if expecting such a thing to occur, an interesting notion when he’d only known the princes through stories and the length of this journey. All eyes sought out Glóin, tense, and then the air seemed to sweep back into the clearing as the white-bearded dwarf lord and king’s councilor finally nodded.

“Aye, I think the two of you are showing your wisdom and maturity in that, my prince. You will have trouble with some of the more conservative lords, however, especially those who’ve now been driven from the Iron Hills.”

“I’d not worry about that, Father,” Gimli’s grin turned positively nasty, “Any opposition won’t last long once Dwalin and I have a chance to explain the whole thing to them- slowly and sharply.”

The way the young dwarf patted his ax left little doubt as to his meaning. Next to him, Dwalin’s eyes gleamed in eager anticipation of repaying some of the old blocks of stone for past snubs and insults to the exiled ruling house. It was as well that Gimli would be leaving to return to Minas Tirith once winter was past or Thorin might have to rein the two in, they looked so pleased at the opportunity to bend a few dwarves’ noses. No real blood would be shed unless they uncovered a true traitor, but fists and threats didn’t bleed, and Thorin knew all too well that some of those they were concerned with had very thick skulls!

Facing his nephews, one laying down, the other standing proudly in front of his brother, Thorin inclined his head respectfully in the greeting of equals for the first time, eyes shining with the pride, honor, and astonishment that he did not have the words to convey.


	30. Dreams of Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which dreams may be more powerful than reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

30\. Dreams of Stone

They settled down quickly after that, all exhausted from the physical efforts needed to scramble over the rough trail and wanting to be prepared for another day of the same. Thorin noted with amusement that the others in the party had

wordlessly placed their bedrolls in a circle around the four members of the royal family, yet one more layer of protection for their princes. It was a devotion that heartened the king, even as he contemplated the future and how he would proceed with the new role thrust upon him. His nephews had set a precedent that could indicate the main lode of ore for the entire dwarven race, or their action might be a teaser, leading to nothing, but the step had been taken and accepted. He could not be more proud of the two than he was at this moment, the king reflected as he allowed himself to drop into sleep to the soft whispers of Fíli and Dis, lying nearby.

How long Thorin slept in the lightless void that was night in Mirkwood, the dwarf didn’t know, but it was a hand smacking him full in the face that brought the slumber to an abrupt end. Blinking eyes tried in vain to penetrate the blackness as dark as the deepest mine under Erebor as he sat up, assessing his surroundings uneasily to find the source of the blow, one hand instinctively seeking the hilt of the dagger at his belt.

Such darkness was not normally distressing for a dwarf, raised as they were in their vast underground cities and often spending their lives working there. This place, however, was different; there were no stone walls, sensed if not physically seen, to offer comfort and security here. Every rustle of leaves or snap of the twig was suspect, grating upon nerves already stretched taunt.

A low moan of distress and restless movement beside him drew his attention, hands groping until he encountered a body twitching and twisting in the throes of night terrors. Before Thorin could fumble further, a light was abruptly unshielded on the other side of camp, the lantern casting its glow onto the restless sleeper. Kili’s features were twisted up in torment, face pale and clammy under Thorin’s palm, a moan of agony working its way out of the depths as if from one who was dying. His hands were flexing open and closed, though the cloth bandage wrapped around his palm kept the glow of the Arkenstone image from being seen.

“Kíli!”

Thorin hissed, one hand cupping the young prince’s pale face as the other shook his shoulder slightly, but there was no response. A touch upon the king’s back had him reacting instinctively, arms coming up to grab the intruder before he froze, mind identifying the startled visage of Nast, lamp in hand. The guard swiftly and wordlessly offered his lord the light then retreated back to the safety of his watch position. As Thorin’s attention returned to his younger nephew, Fíli sat up on Kili’s other side, sleep fading fast from his eyes as he took in the tossing head and moans.

“Kíli! Come on, little brother, you’re dreaming again!”

The older brother’s attempt at shaking the young one awake was no more successful than Thorin’s, the blonde looking to his uncle in alarm.

“Uncle…”

In his distress, Fíli fell back upon the comfortable familial title, pursing his lips and giving a shrill, multi-note whistle at his uncle’s nod. Around them, dwarven shaped lumps startled awake, hands coming up with weapons as heads darted around to locate the enemy before relaxing slightly at the quiet camp.

“Thorin? What’s wrong?”

Dis crowded her older son, reaching around him to push dark hair back from her younger son’s face. She hissed, eyes widening in alarm.

“He’s ice cold!”

Before anyone could do more, the young prince shot upright into his uncle’s arms with an inarticulate scream that raked over the nerves of all who heard with an almost physical pain. Legolas, standing nearby, actually doubled over, hands

pressed futilely to ears, gasping, while the other dwarves winced away. Thorin ignored the piercing spike through his own head, keeping hold of the thrashing, gasping dwarf as the other started to gag and weep in distress. Shudders were shaking the brunette’s entire frame with enough force to make teeth rattle as the prince tried to curl into himself, arms wrapped around his torso as if to hold himself together. Dis and Fíli both grabbed blankets, wrapping the quivering form in Thorin’s arms as the king hugged the young one close, trying to ease him.

“It is alright, Kíli, you are safe. Slow your breathing down, easy…”

The murmurs of Fíli, Thorin and Dis blended with one another, creating a soothing net of loving voices around their distressed member, who slowly calmed, head buried in his uncle’s shoulder. Over the heads of his family, Thorin met the equally concerned eyes of the gathered company, silently thanking them for the sentiment and dismissing them back to their own bedrolls. One by one, they obeyed, Dwalin and Bofur both lingering long enough to lay a supportive hand on Kili’s dark head before retreating. Finally, Fíli leaned toward his brother, hand on his shoulder rubbing slightly in reassurance.

“Kíli?”

This time, Thorin felt the hitch of breath and a slow nod in answer to his older brother’s worried question. Fíli immediately settled back on the ground across from his uncle, arms open to receive the limp body that Thorin gently transferred so that Kili’s head rested upon his brother’s shoulder. The brown eyes were open, but glazed and red rimmed, blinking dazedly in the lantern light. Shaking hands came up to attempt to take the water skin his mother tried pressing to his lips, uncoordinated limbs quickly captured by Fíli’s strong, sure ones before the vessel could be knocked from her hands.

“Whoa, little brother! You don’t need a bath right now!”

That would normally have received at least a roll of the eyes from the youngest of the pair, but there was no sign Kíli had even heard the remark. Dis’ frightened eyes met her brother’s, but he could do nothing save give her a shake of the head, warning her to control her emotions. The water, however, seemed to bring the prince back to some semblance of awareness as eyes focused finally upon his uncle, head turning away from the offered skin. Dis didn’t fight him, setting the water off to the side before gently taking her son’s still chilled hands in her own, gently chafing them.

“What happened, Kíli? Can you tell us?”

Thorin prodded softly, watching closely to see how alert the other truly was. Brown eyes darted to meet his blue ones and then away, head ducking to allow a curtain of hair to hide him, but he nodded again. Hands were pulled gently from his mother’s grasp to rise in Iglishmêk signs, revealing the depth of turmoil the young one was still in.

‘Strange dreams, not like last time. Twisted. It was-‘

The signing cut off for a long moment and the head came back up to rest against his brother’s shoulder, face twisting in distress as the prince attempted to put his experience into words.

‘I was part of the mountain, the stone. Someone chipped away at me, here’. A shaking hand touched his hip. ‘Until I felt balanced just on the edge of falling, and then I couldn’t stop myself. I fell. On someone. I could… feel… bones crushed beneath me, feel them die!’

Tears began streaking Kili’s white face once more at the last emphatic signs and he swiped angrily at them, turning his face into his brother’s neck in embarrassment. The mere thought of being trapped in such a vision twisted at Thorin’s stomach, a distress reflected upon the countenances of his sister and elder sister-son, all three helpless at how to address their youngest. With a dread certainty, the king knew that this was no night terror brought about by the heat exhaustion or fever, but a true telling, though he could not say how he knew. Instead, he settled for leveling a frown at the older prince.

“Not like last time? Do you know what he meant by that, Fíli?”

“Aye.” The blonde’s eyes darted away in discomfort before returning resolutely to his uncle’s. “He didn’t want to cause more concern, but he’s been bothered by odd dreams about the mountain for days now. What’s happening in a certain mine, what animals are about on the face, things like that. He insisted that I not tell you, that it must be his imagination or a remnant of the healing by the Arkenstone.”

Thorin clenched his jaw, but kept his eyes soft as a single hand came out to cup Kili’s cheek, thumb gently swiping away one last tear that made its way down that pale face.

“I know you are frightened, Kíli. Something is causing changes within that you did not ask for or understand.” If his words revealed his own fears to those who knew him best, so be it. “You must tell us when something is wrong or we cannot aid you in this. Alright?”

It was slightly hypocritical, giving advice that he had no intention of following for himself, but he was not a dwarf barely into adulthood, struggling under yet another rocky load he was not prepared to bare. While he had no doubt that Kíli could- and would- not only deal with these changes, but come out the stronger for them, it was not something that needed to be faced alone.

In the flickering light, he could feel the shocked stares of his cousins, though he did not turn from his young nephew to look. Let them gape if they felt the need, he would not apologize for at last showing the gentle concern of a parent for his hurting son. Kíli was much too prone to hiding his hurts until they burst forth in an emotional firestorm, and it had plenty of fuel to feed it lately. The head cradled against his rough palm nodded slightly and he smiled in return as the vibration of a heavy tread upon the ground alerted him to someone standing just behind him. Glancing up, the king was startled to meet the worried paternal gaze of Glóin, a steaming cup held in his hands.

“Here, the lad will need this, Thorin. It’s a calming draught to help him sleep.”

It would do more than that, the scent recognizable to the other dwarf as a powerful sedative Óin had favored whenever he needed to deal with a wounded, prideful, obstinate prince-in-exile. He’d woken from those ‘little something to relax you’ draughts too often not to finally learn the smell of the main ingredient out of sheer self-defense. Then, it had devolved into a clash of wills, winner usually decided by whom Dwalin sided with after making his own, all too accurate, assessment of how much more Thorin could bear. To be affective, however, the draught had to be heated, and a quick glance around revealed no camp fire.

“How did you…?”

He trailed off at the other’s self-satisfied snort.

“Stuck the cup over the candle inside my lantern.”

Thorin allowed a small smile to tug his lips as he shook his head at that. Never let it be said that dwarves lacked in ingenuity! As the cup quickly became tolerably cooled, he passed it to Fíli, who went to press it to his brother’s lips only to be stopped by Kili’s hand on his.

“I don’t want that. We’ll need to be walking in a few hours.”

The voice was hoarse, soft, but at least the reply was a verbal one, even if the message was nonsense. Thorin shook his head at his young sister-son.

“We do not ‘need’ to do anything, Kíli. We can resume when you wake, whenever that may be. Now, drink that.”

Stubborn, willful Kíli, however, exhausted and hurting, allowed his inner dwarfling to rise to the fore, turning his head resolutely away with lips pressed firmly together. Childish and exasperating, Thorin reflected, but not surprising; he would be hard pressed not to act in such a manner himself after such an ordeal, the possible return to such a horrifying nightmare not an action most would willingly submit to. Before he could intervene, he noted familiar stiffening in his elder nephew’s posture and relaxed. Big brother was about to take control, whether Kíli liked it or not.

“You will drink this, little brother. It’s your choice as to how.”

Brown eyes widened in dismayed betrayal at that, the younger one knowing it was no idle threat. As children, and at least once in Minas Tirith, Thorin had seen the older brother forced to physically overpower the younger to dose him with medication. Even with Kíli half dead of fever, it had been a brutal struggle, and now Fíli was calmly warning his sibling that he was perfectly willing to go another round if necessary. There was a distinct sulk to the actions, but Kíli swallowed the herbal concoction, the original immovable stone wall giving way to his brother, the unstoppable dwarven hammer. By Thorin’s count, it was less than a minute before the young prince’s body went limp in sleep, Dis and Fíli working together to carefully arrange him on the bedroll. Only then did the other three members of the royal family sit back in shared dismay.

“You don’t believe these are mere dreams, do you, Thorin?”

Dis asked, a desperate edge in her tone that begged her own big brother to make this better, to reassure her that the morning would prove her fears nothing more than shadows. Thorin only wished he were still in a position to do so.

“Truthfully, Dis, I do not know, but it is too coincidental that these dreams started after the Arkenstone bonded to him. There is nothing more than can be done tonight, in any case. I will send a raven to Erebor in the morning to discover if anything similar to what he saw has occurred.” A glance around the still forest had him amending that with a grimace. “Provided I can find one.”


	31. Twists and Tangles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are several things falling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

31\. Twists and Tangles

The next day, Thorin’s scowl sent any who even contemplated making noise around camp scurrying away from where the younger Prince under the Mountain slept soundly, watched over by his uncle. There had been a brief discussion of plans, the king not objecting when Legolas volunteered to scout ahead, reasoning that an elf in these woods would be of little note to any unfriendly eyes. The others scattered to various occupations as the elf disappeared into the brush, all taking advantage of the time according to their nature. 

Thorin found himself content to carve, knife slowly bringing out the character hidden in the stout branch he’d found on the ground nearby. It felt relaxing to practice a skill that he had little time for, a needed distraction from all the questions and concerns weighing upon him lately. He was kept company at different times throughout the morning by various members of the party, talk soft and light, catching up on the little events and milestones he’d missed. Fíli, of course, never strayed far, even as he instructed young Kifir in throwing knives. Bofur’s son showed an aptitude for ranged weapons, hitting the target more often than not though his father proudly noted it was the first time the young one had any actual instruction. 

Kíli slept on, oblivious, and none suggested waking him. It was just after noon when the slumbering form at last stirred, the king quickly signaling Dwalin and Bofur, who clapped Fíli on the back.

“Come on, then. We should take advantage of a clean source of water and fill all these.”

Bofur dumped several containers in Fíli’s lap, the blonde looking up in protest from where he’d been seated next to his uncle.

“But Kíli-“

“Go, Fíli.” Thorin cut the other off curtly, still the uncle no matter how grown-up the two had managed to become when he wasn’t looking. “I think it would be better were he not overwhelmed immediately upon waking, don’t you? I will stay here.”

His older sister-son frowned at that, but acceded to his uncle’s unspoken request, getting to his feet to follow his older companions, empty skins swinging idly from his hand. The king knew that the other two would keep the older prince away for some time, as Thorin wished to speak with his younger nephew without the other’s interference. 

Kíli stirred again, and then slowly sat up with the aid of Thorin, but he stayed silent as the younger prince shook off the remnants of the herbs he’d been given in the night. The brown eyes were lucid, Thorin noted with relief, watching as Kíli looked about the campsite, taking note of where everyone was before turning to his uncle with a question hovering there. Thorin allowed a faint smile to pull at his lips as one hand rubbed Kili’s shoulder in reassurance.

“He is fine, retrieving water with Bofur and Dwalin. Do you think you could eat something?”

A hesitant nod had Thorin waving a hand at his sister, who quickly brought over a bowl of fresh stew, wordlessly pressing a kiss to her son’s forehead before retreating reluctantly to the other side of their campsite with the others, allowing Thorin and Kíli a measure of privacy. Kíli noted that without comment, intent only upon his food until about half the bowl was gone. 

“You think that the Arkenstone is giving me knowledge of the mountain somehow.”

The younger dwarf was pushing chunks of meat and wild onion around the bowl with his spoon, hair fallen forward to screen his face from his uncle once more. Thorin sighed at the familiar defense mechanism, but did not snap at the other as he normally would have, though he cursed his inability to see Kili’s eyes, always the truest measure of his feelings. 

“Do you?”

He prodded softly, hands reoccupying themselves with his whittling before he was tempted to reach out and still the softly scraping spoon. Kíli gave a bitter bark of laughter.

“How am I supposed to answer that without sounding insane?” A glint of brown peeked through the curtain of hair before ducking back to contemplating his half-finished lunch. “Why me, Uncle? Why am I getting these visions? And what if they are real? What am I to do?”

“I wish I had the answers for you, Kíli, but I don’t. I can only council patience until we may send a message to the mountain to discover if your vision was true. Meanwhile, tell us if you have any more, even if they seem trivial, agreed?” 

A nod answered him as the hand on the spoon became white knuckled, the utensil making a clattering sound against the bowl that spoke to the distress hidden in the young prince. Jaw clenched, Thorin decided upon a course of action he rarely had taken since a dwarfling himself- he softly revealed some of his own dark thoughts. 

“As for your other concerns, would it help you to know that I have been asking myself many of the same questions since that blasted stone announced that I am Durin VII?”

That at least brought Kili’s head up, face slack in shock as he regarded his uncle. Thorin solemnly nodded, watching with well concealed bemusement as the young dwarf turned over the knowledge that the fearsome Thorin Oakenshield was not anywhere near as certain and unshakable as he was sure he seemed to his nephew. Kíli glanced around the clearing again, seeming to seize upon the first thought that came to mind.

“Shouldn’t we be preparing to continue on?”

“No, we’ll spend another night here. You are not the only one among us that the heat has taken a toll upon, simply the worst affected. We will travel the faster tomorrow for the rest.”

The prince sighed at that, guilt flashing briefly in his eyes before he dropped his head again, the next words almost inaudible.

“What if I am not able to rule well? It was always Fíli who had to train and worry about the possibility of one day ruling in your stead, not me.”

Thorin reached out, one strong hand covering Kili’s, causing the other to meet his gaze once more.

“I would be more concerned if you did not have such doubts, nephew, but I also have confidence in both of you. And remember, it will take time for me to prepare any move to retake Khazad-dûm. I would never turn you away should you ask me for my thoughts.”

That finally provoked a small smile and chuckle, the answer no doubt deliberately loud enough for the others to hear.

“In other words, you may not be able to stop yourself from giving advice whether we wish it or not!”

Thorin smiled, laughing lightly at that all too accurate shot, especially when stifled chortles and one very unladylike snort sounded from several paces away.

“Quiet, you!”

He called good-naturedly to Dis, who turned and stuck her tongue out at her brother, doubling her younger son over in laughter once he recovered from his astonishment. Now he needed only to find a messenger to send to the mountain, he reflected as he climbed to his feet with one last squeeze of his younger nephew’s shoulder. The king did not even object when he was forced to dance quickly to the side to avoid the blonde leaping over ducking dwarves to reach his brother’s side, anxious to see the other awake and well, though such behavior was hardly becoming for a ruler!

The next several days proved that finding a raven was to be as difficult as Thorin feared, a bird finally appearing in the late afternoon three days later, and only because it already sought them. The king’s visage turned grim as he listened intently to its message, and then turned to his companions, who had been enjoying the brief rest.

“There was an incident in the mountain two days ago. A section of wall in the north tunnels collapsed, killing your second, Porir, instantly, Dwalin. I am sorry. It also injured the Warmaster of the Iron Hills, Flár, though he was shoved out of the worst of it.”

His eyes sought Kili’s, who had paled, hand clutching convulsively at his brother’s shoulder. They had chosen not to tell the rest of the company just what had so disturbed everyone’s rest two nights ago, saying only that Kíli was once again suffering nightmares. None had commented on that, unwilling to embarrass the younger prince by bringing up such a thing, though none could blame him. He had certainly been through enough to cause many a grey-beard an uneasy night! 

The young prince was seated upon one of the large roots that had thrust its way up from the soil, breathing heavy and sipping at a water skin under the watchful eyes of both Fíli and Dis. Slowing their pace had aided the still recovering prince mightily, especially when a shaken Legolas had returned from his scouting foray several days earlier to report that sections of rough, tainted forest continued for much longer than originally thought. The influence of Dol Guldur had twisted and tangled areas that once were beautiful into something more closely resembling a demented obstacle course, making for long, grueling days with no end yet in sight.

“I warned you that no one should be in that area until-“

“It wasn’t an accident, Glóin.” The raven-haired prince cut his cousin off heavily. “It was deliberate, a move by the cult to place their people in the correct positions to take Erebor. Who takes over defense of the mountain with you here and your second dead, Dwalin?”

The Warmaster leaned on his hammer thoughtfully, frowning at the question.

“Normally, it would be Flár, that’s why Stronghelm had asked him to stay when he sent me with the delegation, but as he’s injured… Eír would be senior.” Dwalin inhaled sharply, gaze darting from Kíli to Thorin. “Surely you don’t suspect him?! He’s been at my side along with Porir since just after we won back the mountain!”

“Right now, Dwalin, I would not trust any who do not stand here beyond kin and Company.”

Kíli was perhaps the only one of them besides Thorin who could have said such a thing to the old warrior and not been handed his head in return, Dwalin’s eyes abruptly softening as the young prince ducked his head a little at speaking so boldly.

“Aye, I can’t blame you for that, lad.”

“Nor should you.” Fíli bit out, but a touch of his brother’s hand on his arm cooled the blonde’s anger and he sighed, pursing his lips in thought. “This gives us an advantage, even if we aren’t sure of the traitor. Thorin, a message should be sent to Nori telling him of our suspicions; if the cult doesn’t know that we know, he might just catch one of them. My only concern is that we may already be too late, they’ll have taken over the mountain.”

“They won’t.” Kili’s focus seemed to be inward, speaking absently, as if barely aware that anyone was nearby. “They cannot have enough dwarves to hold the mountain until Durin’s Day, and they can do nothing until then.”

Thorin held up a hand to still the others as all pressed toward the dark haired prince, keeping his voice very soft and calm. Over the last two nights, Kíli had suffered from several additional visions, though he seemed to have difficulty putting them to words without gentle prompting. None, fortunately, had signaled anything more dire than a rock falling upon the head of a careless miner and knocking him out.

“What is it the cult seeks to do on Durin’s Day, Kíli?”

The silence stretched heavily as all eyes were locked upon the raven-haired dwarf, but finally he shook his head, refusing to look at them.

“I don’t know! I just- I know they can’t move too early, that’s all.”

“And how do you know that?”

Glóin broke in with a frown, arms crossed as the fiery tempered dwarf glared suspiciously at his king and princes. Thorin sighed, knowing that there was no longer any way to delay the inevitable explosion the answer would garner. Before he could say anything, however, Bofur broke in, once more proving that the toymaker was much more observant than others suspected.

“’Tis the Arkenstone, isn’t it? It’s been giving you some sort of visions or signs? That’s what the other night was about, wasn’t it? No mere nightmare would have the lot of you that upset!”

A grave nod from Thorin assured the other that he had the right of the matter as Kíli picked absently at the wood of his seat, not looking at the others.

“I felt the stone being chipped away until it was set to fall on him, Bofur. Then-“

The prince shook his dark hair, unwilling to give voice once more to the horror he’d felt, not that any of the others needed the words to understand now.

“Oh, lad…”

The older dwarf approached his prince, eyes holding deep empathy as one hand rested on Kili’s shoulder. Slowly, the young one allowed his body to tilt forward until his forehead rested against Bofur’s chest, body shaking in silent tears of a long delayed emotional release. Fíli enfolded his brother in an embrace from where he sat at his side, he and the toymaker taking over as the others moved several paces away, allowing the tormented younger prince some privacy. Thorin saw no recrimination in any eyes, only understanding, thankfully. Dwalin abruptly pounded one fist hard against a nearby tree, back to his king.

“Signs and portents!” The Warmaster of Erebor sounded disgusted. “We followed the signs Óin saw saying that it was time to take back the mountain, too, and what did that get us? A dead king, two dead princes and almost eighty years of Dain on the throne!”

When he saw Kíli flinch at Dwalin’s bitter words, Thorin turned to his old friend, blue eyes flashing fire.

“You forget that it also gained us a dead dragon and the return of our home, where dwarflings could grow in safety, not wondering where their next meal would come from, or whether they would be run out of another town of Men. Was that not worth almost any sacrifice?”

The glare Dwalin directed at his king said quite clearly what the warrior’s opinion of that was, and it did not match with Thorin’s. The king simply shook his head, and turned to find the raven before the other could draw him into a debate on the relative worth of the sacrifices made that long ago day. As none could change what had been, it did not truly matter; their focus had to be kept upon the road ahead, which would not be faced standing in Mirkwood. 

“Come. We still have hours of light left.”

The return to travel did not last long, however, as they came perhaps an hour later to a large ravine of brush filled slopes leading down into a morass of stinking swamp at the bottom. The only way across was a rickety old bridge, several planks broken or missing completely, and the ropes slick with moss. Thorin could not help the distaste and contempt in his tone as he turned to their elven guide.

“Is this how your people cross?”

Truthfully, he was not sure the thing would support the weight of young Kifir, let alone the bulky solid muscular Dwalin or the slightly flabby Glóin. The prince, however, shook his head, face showing his anguish.

“No. This place has long been held by the creatures of darkness, and before that- Once there was a white bridge, the creek flowing below so clear that one could count the pebbles upon the bottom. Every year salmon came to spawn in such numbers that young elven scouts would dare one another to walk across the stream upon their backs. This… I must send word to Radagast the Brown, for I fear it will take the power of the Istari to clear the taint now that the power of the Three begins to fade.”

“You truly believe that old fool could do somethin’ about this?” Dwalin rolled his eyes, most likely recalling the befuddled old wizard and his stick insect. “He could barely remember his own name!”

Thorin, however, was not so inclined to share his friend’s opinion, having witnessed firsthand the power of the Istari. Gandalf had often appeared to be an absent-minded old man, as well, until one dared to cross him. Had he been of Saruman’s ilk, few would have survived to do so a second time, including Thorin. The crazed actions of Radagast were most likely were used as a cloak to conceal his power and keep others from interfering in his work. A stern glance from his king faded some of the derision from Dwalin’s face as the elf turned to the dwarven warrior with an eyebrow raised in mild amusement.

“You would do well, Master Dwalin, to never underestimate one of the Istari, even Radagast the Brown. Unlike Mithrandir, his charge is not the people but the land and animals, so few have witnessed his true abilities. It is only his presence that has saved the entire Greenwood from being lost these last few dark years.” The elf shook his head, one hand waving to encompass the mess before them. “The cleansing of Middle-Earth will take many lifetimes of Men, I fear.”

“I wish him well in that task, but that does not aid us in crossing.”

Thorin contented himself with grumbling, eyeing the bridge as he mentally ran down the list of the company, trying to decide the best approach. Dwalin, as the heaviest and best able to handle an unexpected fall, would need to go last, but who to send first? Motion on the bridge brought the king’s head around to curse as he spotted the fleet-footed Legolas already halfway across the span and paused to examine a questionable section more closely. A sigh and a clap of one hand on his shoulder stopped Thorin before he could bellow at the fool, Gimli watching his friend with amused tolerance.

“Don’t bother yellin’. Neither Gandalf nor Aragorn could stop him doin’ such things, so I doubt he’ll listen to you.”

Thorin’s lips twitched at the thought of all the muttering and curses the irritable old wizard had most likely rained down upon the elven prince. If there was one thing all knew about Gandalf, it was that he was equally as prone to calling names at king, prince, lowly soldier, lord, dwarf, man, elf, or hobbit should they provoke his ire. With a whisper of sound, the elven prince appeared at the side of the dwarven king.

“There are signs of rot, and several missing boards, but I believe it will hold if we cross one by one. It would be best, however, if I carried Kíli for there are spots where the footing is treacherous.”

It would also ensure that the prince was over in the least amount of time.

“Agreed. Gimli and Nast, you two follow Legolas and Kíli, then Dis with the pony, Kifir, Glóin, Bofur, Fíli and I, with Dwalin last.”

That would place warriors upon both banks, with the archers over first, where they could set up cover fire should enemies come from behind. Dis would have the pony, which would take the majority of her concentration, as he’d intended when a glance at his sister had shown her pale, eyes fixed upon the ravine. Obviously decades of living once more in Erebor had not cured her fear of heights, or, as she’d once tartly pointed out, her fear of falling from them. Needless to say, she did not dally when her turn came, though none were taking their time, even with the sway of the bridge making passage more difficult. 

Only Thorin and Dwalin were left to cross when the king’s worst fear broke the stillness- a rope snapped with a resounding twang as Fíli reached the middle of the span. Shouts came from the far side, needlessly urging the prince to run as he pounded forward, but he was not fast enough, the other rope parting before Thorin’s eyes. The king darted forward without thinking, somehow snagging the end from the air and throwing his weight backwards even as he knew such an action to be futile. The slick hemp slid across his palm, burning, and pulled him off balance, the dwarf tumbling over the edge as he released the rope to grab at an overhanging bush. Once more, as he had so long ago upon the mountain pass, Dwalin appeared to catch hold of his king, swinging the other back to firm ground even as part of Thorin noted the sound of a falling body impacting the soupy muck below.


	32. Daggers in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin has a close shave and new problems arise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

32\. Daggers in the Dark

Thorin was quick to scramble to his feet, ignoring the sting of scratched arms and rope burned palms to peer over the edge of the ravine toward the bottom about nine feet below. There, as he’d feared, was the still form of his older nephew, who’d somehow managed to land on his back in the swampy water. Across the gap, the king could see the others in their party crowded around, looking down at their fallen member.

“Did he drop straight down?”

He called out, fearing the worst, but Glóin was shaking his head.

“No! He managed to grab part of the bridge and rode it to the side wall, but lost his grip. He rolled the rest of the way down.”

Eyeing the opposite slope, Thorin could see the path torn through the brush and rock now that his cousin had called his attention to it, and it did nothing to ease the anxiety the king felt. There were too many obstacles for Fíli to have remained unscathed, and the dwarf had yet to move or answer the anxious calls of his kin. 

A rope whistled through the air from the other side, dropping with a soft plop into the mud at the bottom near his fallen sister-son. He could see Dis physically retraining an anxious Kíli as Legolas grabbed hold of the rope and nimbly started down. 

“Thorin! Give me a hand!”

The hale from his friend tore his gaze from the still form below to where Dwalin stood about a dozen feet further down the edge of the ravine, leaning against a massive old tree trunk. The thing was already dead, needing only a storm or other natural occurrence to tear the remaining roots from the soil and topple it. What had caught Dwalin’s interest, however, was that the remaining trunk looked to be tall enough to span the gap between them and the others in their party, making it an ideal candidate for a makeshift bridge.

A nod at Dwalin and the other hefted one of his war axes regretfully, the use of such a fine instrument of war as a mere tool one that any true dwarf only consented to when there was no alternative. The thwack of the axe hitting the base of the tree on the side facing the ravine resounded loudly enough that Thorin tightened his grip on Orcrist’s hilt, alert for any sign of enemies. Behind him, the king could hear the bass voice of Gimli and the lighter baritone of Legolas calling back and forth, but he dared not take his eyes from the surrounding forest to check on their progress with Fíli. 

Several more heavy swings from the muscular Dwalin created a large wedge of trunk missing from the base, which would direct the fall of their chosen tree. Now, the warrior came to the other side and hefted his war hammer, a solid crack signaling the success of his plan as the old trunk began to slowly fall, then gain speed to tear through the brush on the other side. Dwalin grunted, then swung his massive frame up onto the newly created span to inch out, bouncing a bit on his feet to test the stability.

“It’ll do.”

The short assessment was grunted back at the king as the other dwarf led the way across to hop down on the other side. As the other reached safety, Thorin at last allowed himself to check upon his nephew and the elf, grateful to see the graceful prince making his way back up with a dwarf actively clinging to his back. That meant his sister-son could not be too badly hurt, at least. The cracking of brush from behind him, however, spun the king around to survey his side of the ravine once more. 

“Thorin!”

Dwalin’s alarmed bellow jolted the other to action, leaping to the trunk to make his way across as fast as he dared. He was only partially across, however, when he heard and felt another leap onto the trunk behind him. The moss clinging to the bark meant that his best defense was to cross quickly, a potential loss of balance and fall being more of a threat than the possibility of being stabbed in the back by his pursuer. Several more steps and he found himself forced to fight for balance as the iron soled dwarven boots he wore slid on the slick surface. Just as he regained his balance, he heard the thrum of a bow string, but the arrow flew past him to strike his foe, a gargling scream indicating his nephew’s skill had once more proven deadly. 

Dwalin stood at the other end of their make-shift bridge, Grasper and Keeper held at the ready as Thorin leaped to the ground and strode several more feet before turning, Orcrist sweeping around in a flash of silvery blue. One of the two Uruk-hai that had followed him across was instantly a head shorter, while Dwalin made fast work of its companion, and a man on the bridge fell as his forehead sprouted the blue fletching of one of Kili’s arrows. Dwalin took advantage of the lull in attackers to hit the trunk instead, axes biting into it several times until a crack indicated the old tree was beginning to give way. Swiftly, the warrior dropped his axes to grasp his war hammer once more, swinging it around with a massive overhand blow down onto the wood and the bridge buckled, falling to the muck below with a crash. 

Curses in several languages, including Khuzdul, sounded from the other side, bringing a grim smile to the king’s lips as Gimli appeared by his side. Across from them, a dwarf stood upon the edge of the drop, tattoos on his face marking him as an Ironfist.

“You will not escape that easily, Longbeard scum!”

“Oh?” Gimli laughed derisively, crossing his arms over his massive chest, the deliberate lack of weapon showing a scorn for the other that was one of the deadliest insults dwarves could offer another of their race. “Unless you’ve found wings, I’d say we have! Trust an Ironfist to stoop to consorting with filth such as orcs!”

The other’s face was turning so red that it was visible even to the dwarves across the ravine, and a hand came up to shake his axe at them in rage.

“You will not leave this forest aliv-“

This last threat was cut off abruptly by an arrow to the throat, the body tumbling to the muck below, a fitting end for such a one as that, Thorin noted. Beside them, Legolas smirked as he lowered his bow.

“Elven bows have longer range.” The prince noted drily. “Come, the others are this way.”

A short walk found the rest of the party perhaps a quarter of a mile down the trail, gathered behind a large boulder, Fíli sitting propped against it. At least, Thorin assumed it to be Fíli from the dripping mustache on either side of the mouth and the blue eyes, for little else of the dwarf was recognizable as such. The form was covered from head to foot in mud, algae, leaves, and other debris from the slope he’d rolled down making Fíli appear as though a piece of the forest floor had become alive. Glóin and Dis were kneeling next to the prince, bent over his extended right arm while Kíli leaned forward anxiously from where he sat on Fíli’s other side, dabbing at a cut on his older brother’s head.

“How bad?”

Thorin asked, noting several of the others had taken up guard positions around them. The king knew that he had allowed the party to become too complacent, too certain that the forest and light patrol of elves around the perimeter would shield them from the cult’s mercenaries, a nearly fatal mistake. Now, the question became which would serve them better, placing the princes back in full armor and further slowing their pace or leaving the protection off and trusting to speed and the twisted paths of Mirkwood to compensate? Either option would be hard, especially for Kíli, who’d benefited greatly from the slower pace they’d been following.

“Kíli, stop fussing!”

Fíli bit the words out, batting lightly at his brother with his free hand before grimacing. 

“Sorry, that shook me up a bit.” The blonde glanced up at his uncle. “I’m alright, Thorin, mostly scrapes and bruises. Good thing Mahal made dwarven bodies out of stone.”

“Especially heads?” 

The king could not resist needling the other in his relief, tapping the muddy hair with one finger as he leaned over to inspect the now cleaned head wound.

“Are you referring to the hardness or what’s rattling around inside?”

Kíli added with a cheeky grin at his older brother, who let out a low growl and pinned the other with a stern glare in response.

“You’re one to talk. What were you thinking, stepping out like that?”

“I was thinking, dear brother, that the chance of my being seen was better than allowing uncle to be hit in the back with a mace!”

Thorin snorted, but straightened and stepped back several paces to allow Dis and Glóin to finish cleaning the cuts. They needed to put space between themselves and their pursuers, but not at the expense of an infection from the filth the prince had fallen into. Anywhere the skin was open, they sacrificed some of their precious drinking water to clean out as much as possible, but the rest of the dwarf had to stay covered in muck, though the raven haired brother brushed off what he could. Thorin sank down onto a nearby tree root, unsurprised when Dwalin took up a station close by, the warrior’s comments sour.

“We need to move fast, put some miles between us and the ravine before nightfall.”

“I know.” Thorin conceded, eyes drawn once more to his nephews. “I’d rather they were in heavier gear, as well, but for now speed will have to do.”

It went unspoken what the problem with that was, Kíli turning to glance at them for a moment with worry in his dark eyes as if knowing the direction his uncle’s thoughts were most likely taking. 

“I can carry him on my back for a while, as we did with our burglar that time.” Dwalin offered.

That idea definitely had merit, Thorin mulling it over even as the memory of how ridiculous Dwalin had looked with a hobbit clinging like a bur to his back brought a faint trace of lightness to his countenance. Bilbo, true to form, had managed to find the one rock on the forest path sharp enough to cut through the sole of a hobbit’s foot, which had necessitated them carrying him for several days. While Kíli was taller than the hobbit, he was still whipcord thin, so even with what armor he was wearing, he would weigh scarcely more. Thorin gave his friend a curt nod, standing as he saw Dis and Glóin aid Fíli to his feet. The prince swayed momentarily, but then steadied, waving off any aid as he resettled his weapons.

“Good enough. Kíli, Dwalin will be carrying you for a time. Fíli, let us know if you need aid as well.”

The dirty blonde head nodded, but the brunette looked to be about to object, an act forestalled by one swift, irritated scowl from the elder. Kíli was pulled up onto Dwalin’s broad back, face showing his discomfort with the whole thing, but it allowed them to set off at a noticeably faster pace, all with weapons to hand. There was no further sign of their pursuers, however, and they covered nearly five miles before finding an easily defensible spot to camp. Rocky outcroppings had become more prevalent as they passed north, and they were able to one not far from a stream that formed a three sided alcove. Legolas nodded approvingly, laying down his pack before moving to go back the way they’d come in an effort to locate their enemy. Thorin quickly grabbed the elf’s arm before he could pass him, words a reluctant grumble.

“Be careful!”

The elven prince smiled faintly, nodding at his blonde dwarven counterpart who’d set down his pack nearby.

“Ensure Fíli washes thoroughly, I have seen the smallest scratch kill here. The stream is clean, and should be safe enough.”

With that, the other disappeared into the underbrush with scarcely a leaf or twig displaced to mark the passage. His older nephew was already setting aside weapons and pulling clean clothing from his pack in preparation to bathe, face thunderous. Thorin sighed, knowing he was in for another fight as the prince had been in a foul mood since the ravine, snapping at any who had the temerity to try aiding him, or worse yet, asked if he were alright. 

Even Dwalin had received the sharp edge of his tongue, which had Kíli watching his brother with astonished worry until their old tutor merely cuffed the blonde upside the back of the head as he walked past, muttering about ‘young pups’. Thorin had said nothing, though he had no desire to be in Fíli’s place when he next sparred with the Warmaster; Dwalin would neither forgive nor forget short of bruises to remind the young one just why he’d held his title since before he was even of age! It was certainly not because Fundin had held the position before him, nor due to noble blood, which was not actually required of a Warmaster.

A short hand sign brought Dwalin, Bofur and Glóin to where the king was seated with his sister and younger sister-son while Nast and Gimli grabbed weapons, wordlessly assigning themselves to guard the older prince as he cleaned up. Thorin laid out a map of Middle Earth, finding stones nearby to hold the corners of the parchment.

“According to Legolas, we are approximately here, one-third of the way through Mirkwood, just past the Narrows of the Forest. The good news is that the forest spreads out again; giving us more options for passage and them less chance to find us. The bad news is that we must soon make a choice. We can follow the Old Forest Road to Erebor, but that leaves us once more upon a well-known path with potential enemies to all sides, including Thranduil. Or we can continue on the forest paths north of the road, but that requires passing through the mountains and dodging elven patrols, though Legolas knows that part of the forest very well.”

“Are we certain that bunch saw Kíli?”

Glóin’s words were partially slurred by the pipe-stem in his mouth, but the others were used to such things. The dark haired prince shook his head, though Thorin noted approvingly that he offered no apologies for the choice he’d made, simply stepped up to deal with the consequences.

“I didn’t exactly have a chance to hide while firing arrows, Glóin. We can probably assume that they did.”

“Speed might be our best option, then.” Glóin idly traced the path they’d taken once before. “We stop hiding in this worthless forest and make straight for the mountain.”

“Excellent idea, cousin. I’m sure the army Fain force marches from the Iron Hills would be happy to greet you, too.”

Dwalin gifted the other dwarf with a contemptuous roll of the eyes that matched the warrior’s tone, which, of course, instantly had Glóin bristling.

“We dwarves are natural sprinters; they’ll be useless after a long distance run like that, especially if most are bloody Blacklocks! I still think that-“

“Enough! Both of you! Mahal help us, if you two start another argument I’ll sew both your mouths shut in the night!” That stopped both the combatants cold, both familiar enough with Dis’s temper that they were unwilling to discover if she were serious. The dwarf lady glared at them both for a moment longer before turning back to the map. “Bofur? Have you thoughts on this?”

“Aye, Lady Dis, I do. I’d say we’d best trust to Legolas and stay lost in the forest awhile longer. Better to dodge a few elves and spiders than place ourselves in the archer’s view, asking to be shot at, especially for the lads. We have the time.”

Thorin nodded, not at all surprised to hear Bofur’s reasoning as it was what he had been thinking himself. Still, it was reassuring for the king to hear most of the others concurring with him. With their path momentarily decided, Bofur headed off to where his son was already laying out supplies for a meal, the others scattering to various tasks. As the camp began to settle and a still damp Fíli returned to take his accustomed place beside his brother, Thorin ran his eyes over his sister-sons assessing.

“And how are the two of you? You don’t look to be as tired tonight, Kíli.”

The younger prince smiled, eyes bright instead of already sagging with sleep as they were most nights lately.

“I’m well, uncle. I’ll be ready for another hard day tomorrow; I know we can’t afford to linger now.”

Stretching himself out on the ground beside the other, Fíli lightly nudged his brother with one foot.

“That doesn’t mean half killing yourself again, you fool.” Blue eyes slit open to regard Thorin. “I’m sorry, uncle, but I’d rather be alone until dinner. My head is still throbbing. And, no, I don’t need any of that foul tasting mash Óin calls a headache powder!”

Thorin silently stood, noting with amusement that Fíli’s definition of alone apparently included his brother even as he frowned at the reference to their old herbalist. Granted, Fíli was tired and had been through an ordeal today, so it was probable that he simply had not thought through his words, having grown up with Óin as their healer. Walking away, the king decided to assign himself first watch, uneasy tonight.

It was nearing the end of his watch around midnight when Thorin heard the familiar tread behind him. Odd, that the other should be awake now, but before he could turn to ask, the cold, sharp blade of a dagger pressed against his throat, a strong hand tangling itself into his black mane. The words were growled in his ear, full of malice.

“Do not make a sound or I will slit your throat without a second thought. Put your hands behind you!”

Mind swirling in shock, outrage, and confusion, Thorin did as he was told, hoping to surprise the other when the weapon dropped, as it must if he meant to tie the king’s hands. Unfortunately, his captor had anticipated that, blade never wavering as what must have been a pre-knotted loop of leather was slid over his wrists and tightened to the point where it bit into the flesh.

“Kneel!”

The harsh command was accompanied by a hard yank backward on his thick black hair, the older dwarf hitting his knees blindly, eyes tearing involuntarily at the pain. Once there, the other proved to have learned his lessons from Dwalin too well as one boot was planted firmly upon Thorin’s calves, trapping them before the knife disappeared from his throat. Before Thorin could think to try wrenching his body away, his wrists were grabbed and the rest of the leather wrapped firmly before being tied and then doused with water. That last move sent the king’s stomach plummeting, knowing the leather would tighten and shrink as it dried, digging further into already aching wrists. It was a favorite trick of orcs as it guaranteed that even should the captive find a knife to cut the ties, his hands would be useless for hours afterward as blood and tissues objected to the harsh treatment. It was a level of cruelty that he never would have believed the other dwarf capable of, especially towards Thorin. Somewhere in the darkness of the campsite behind him, there was stirring, and the king could only hope that it was someone waking, not merely a restless sleeper.

“Thorin? What’s going on?”

Thorin closed his eyes with a curse even as the other grabbed him once more, pulling the king to his feet and swinging the taller dwarf around, dagger once more sharp against his skin. Only millimeters away from that razor sharp edge, his heart vein throbbed, lying just below the skin where even an unintentional cut could prove lethal in seconds. From the darkness, there was the sound of body hitting body and a muffled oath in an all too familiar voice, the older dwarf wishing the one who woke had been anyone but him. Somewhere, someone found a lantern, the unshielded light abruptly flaring so brightly that Thorin flinched and gasped as the dagger cut ever so slightly into his neck. Blinking futilely against ever more watery eyes, the dwarf could make out the forms of several of the party in various stages of wakefulness, stunned to immobility by the sight that met their gaze.

“Send the prince to me now, or I will cut your leader’s throat and you can watch him die! Now!” 

The order was a harsh bark in Thorin’s ear, the cold hatred sending a chill through the captive. One of the forms in front of them moved toward them, only to be grabbed firmly by a tall, broad figure that could only be Dwalin, mutter to the one he stopped loud enough for Thorin to hear in the still night.

“No, you don’t, laddie!”

“Dwalin, look at him! He really means to kill Thorin!”

There was a low growl from his captor, half anger and half disgust, at that.

“Hurry up, my hand gets shaky when I’m tired and I just had this blade sharpened!”

One of the others moved forward then, hands extended out to show he bore no weapon, flaps on his upturned hat giving him a distinctive outline against the lantern behind him that identified Bofur before the toymaker spoke.

“Now, Fíli-lad, don’t you think we’d better talk about this?”


	33. Battlefields of the Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin faces an enemy worse than death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

33\. Battlefield of the Mind

Thorin could feel Fíli stiffen behind him at the casual address, body rumbling in a snarl.

“Do not try your mind games, Ironfist, I’ve seen through your master’s illusions! My brother! NOW!”

There was a shuffling among the dwarves, though Dwalin kept a firm grip upon Kili’s arm, preventing him from moving should he seek to obey that directive. Another figure stepped up next to Bofur and it was all Thorin could do to keep himself silent, willing his sister to recognize the seriousness of whatever delusion held her elder son. The antagonism between mother and son had definitely dissipated as they travelled, but the king doubted it would take much under these conditions for it to flare once more.

“Fíli, something is wrong with you. We need you to put up the dagger so that we might help!”

“Help?! What kind of help would that be?” For a moment, Fíli sounded genuinely puzzled, and then the contempt was back. “Oh, I know! A dark dungeon cell until you have what you wish, and then a shallow grave in dirt! I will not ask again- release my brother!”

The moment Thorin felt the grip on him shift, he forgot about trying to puzzle out who or what exactly Fíli was seeing, knowing what was about to happen and that he had only one chance to prevent the tragedy. The others had forgotten that Fíli was ambidextrous. The hand in his hair was removed, and though the dagger still rested against his throat, the king took the only chance he had and thrust his body backwards into his captor even as Fíli prepared to throw. The move did not succeed in knocking the younger dwarf down, but it did alter the path of the knife Fíli had sent flying with his other hand just enough that he saw Bofur reel backward a step, grasping his arm instead of one of them collapsing with it buried in their throat. For his troubles, the older dwarf was given a stout clout to the back of his head, most likely with the pommel of the dagger he had forged for Fíli so long ago. The blow sent him reeling to his knees as his hair was grasped once more, and the steel tickled his neck.

“Try anything like that again and I’ll give you such a cut that even you will find it hard to recover from, am I clear?”

The warning was hissed in his ear, anger as sharp as the blade the other held, and as uncompromising. Before them, Kíli stiffened, horrified gaze locked on his brother.

“Fíli-“

Whatever the younger brother had been about to say was cut off by the elder.

“Now, Kíli!”

The others, thankfully, had at last recognized the depths to which the blonde had been lost, Dwalin going so far as to hand Kíli his crutches as the other prince moved to obey his brother. Not, however, without some rather desperate stalling tactics.

“I’ll need my pack-“

“No.” Once more the elder cut the younger off. “I have everything you need in my pack. Grab a lantern and get over here.”

Thorin winced as he was once again pulled to his feet. He’d seen Fíli going through his brother’s pack earlier, but hadn’t thought anything of it as it was completely normal for the brothers to share almost everything. As Kíli approached, face pale in the flickering lantern light, Thorin tried to meet his eyes, reassure the younger dwarf that they had no choice for now. As the king was pulled into the darkness away from the stunned camp, his captor snarled one last warning.

“Don’t try to follow us.”

Traveling through Mirkwood at night proved to be almost impossible. Fíli had pushed Thorin to walk in front of him with Kíli, while the blonde prince walked in the rear with the lantern shining over their shoulders, not an ideal situation for travel. To make matters worse, of course, Thorin’s hands were tied behind him, making it very difficult to recover from every slip of the foot or unexpected change in terrain. Three times, he hit the ground hard, only to be yanked up none too gently by Fíli. The first time it happened, Kíli had dropped next to him in alarm, crutches clattering against the rocky ground. 

“Uncle!”

Hands had pushed back the hair that had fallen into Thorin’s face as the older dwarf fought to draw back in the breath that had been knocked from him; firefly flashes dancing in his vision though he knew none of the insects lived in this part of Mirkwood. Just as his pained blue gaze met the concerned brown eyes, however, the other was yanked away by this older brother, Fíli’s face clouded with anger. Even in the uncertain light of the lantern, Thorin could see Kíli flinch back from the other, an interaction he’d never thought to witness from one of his nephews toward his sibling. Fíli, at least, had immediately looked contrite, resting one hand on his brother’s shoulder as he handed the other his crutches.

“I’m sorry, Kíli, I know you don’t understand what’s happening, but you have to trust me. That isn’t our uncle.”

The raven haired brother pursed his lips, apparently at the end of his patience with the whole mess.

“Well, who is it, then?” 

He snapped, doing his best to seem the uncertain little brother hoping his elder could explain things to him. Unfortunately, Thorin noted worriedly, Kíli was a horrible actor, the question coming out more as a challenge then a plea. Kíli never had been able to lie with a straight face, making it very easy for their uncle to tell when the pair had been up to mischief. Fíli seemed for once to be oblivious to his brother’s tells, possibly due to whatever herb or illness currently clouded the older prince’s mind, giving the younger a tolerant smile.

“It’s Saruman, little brother. Can you make it a little further? I want to follow the stream for a while to throw off any trackers they might have.”

As Thorin was once more pulled to his feet, he at last noted the sound of running water nearby, indicating a stream. It might have been the very one that flowed by their campsite, but Thorin couldn’t be sure, nor was he certain that they were not simply walking in circles in the darkness. 

Walking the stream turned out to be a mixed blessing. The occasional break in the overhanging trees allowed a slight amount of moonlight by which to see, but mossy, water slickened rocks made the footing even worse, causing Thorin to fall twice more. It also instantly erased any tracks that might have been left, dismay tightening Thorin’s stomach as he realized not even Legolas would be able to follow them now. The hours of slogging through the rocky waters seemed to drag unending, only the labored breathing of his companions letting the king know that he was not alone, none having the energy to speak even if they wanted to. They only halted when Kíli was the one who slipped, feet flying out in front of him to land fully on his back with a strangled yelp of pain. That received the first reaction Thorin had seen that he truly recognized as ‘Fíli’ instead of the mad dwarf who had taken on his nephew’s guise.

“Kíli! Breathe, little brother!”

The blonde was on his knees in an instant, heedless of pack, captive, or bruising rocks, hands automatically reaching to aid Kili’s struggling diaphragm to regain breath. Helplessly, all Thorin could do was watch, knowing that any move or word from him to comfort the stricken dwarf would be misconstrued by the older brother. If even a hint of the true Fíli shown through, however… Thorin did not bother to hide his anguish, even when the blonde’s eyes hardened when the other checked on him. Only when Kíli was once more upon his feet, face strained, did the older prince turn a glare upon his captive before walking over to the bank to peer into one of the dark crevices created by the massive trees growing around and over the rocks. After a moment, Fíli disappeared, and Thorin risked taking a step closer to his younger nephew to ask a soft question.

“Are you alright, Kíli?”

The return smile was thin as the younger dwarf’s hands gripped the handles of his crutches, struggling to remain on his feet.

“No talking to him!”

Fíli barked, grabbing Thorin’s arm and shoving him toward the dark opening he’d been exploring. It was only then that the king noted the lightening gloom around them that marked dawn in Mirkwood. With a sigh, he allowed the prince to push him until he was stumbling under several tangled roots to climb a slightly inclined bank of sand into a cave. It was fairly deep, the front in the water, the slightly elevated back made of a rock shelf worn down by time and water and the overarching roots of the great tree above. It was dry and out of sight, probably not even visible unless one stood in the center of the stream, and the perfect place for them to hole up for the day without being seen. 

Thorin had to grudgingly admire Fíli’s sense in picking the spot, even though chance had dictated some of it. Once inside, he was pushed down to sit with his back against the rock, the small weapons he had still on him quickly stripped, and then his feet bound. Finally, with a glance at his brother, who’d found a place a few feet away, the blonde grabbed a short length of material from his pack and gagged his uncle with it.   
Next, he made his way to his brother; voices too soft for Thorin to make out over the background burble of the stream, though Kíli snuck looks over his brother’s shoulder to his uncle several times, shaking his head. Fíli moved to rummage in his pack once more before returning to his brother with several strips of material as Thorin watched, concerned. It seemed, however, that the younger dwarf had managed to scrape the side of his hand and wrist when he fell, Fíli gently cleaning it out before folding one cloth as a pad.

“Hold this in place, Kíli, I need to bind it.”

It was done so casually that not even Thorin saw it coming. One swift wrap had the bandaging material not only around the injured hand, but also around the wrist holding the pad in place, binding Kíli before he could think to pull away.

“Fíli! What are you doing?!”

The older prince put one hand up to his little brother’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze before an outraged Kíli managed to knock it away.

“I’m sorry, Kíli, but I have to keep you safe, and this is the only way I can think to do it. Saruman has you under some sort of spell and until I can get help to cure you, I can’t risk it. You could easily walk right back into the camp of our enemies!” Fíli lifted one hand to brush his brother’s wild hair from his forehead, and this time, Kíli didn’t pull away, just watching the other with wounded eyes. “You’re sick, Kee. Rest here while I find some herbs for that fever and scout a bit.”

Deftly, the older brother stripped his sibling of any weapons, placing them with Thorin’s in a small niche high up on the opposite side of their hideaway, and then placed water, food and a blanket next to Kíli. 

“I’ll be back as quickly as I can, Kíli, I promise. Don’t go near Saruman, and don’t try to leave; I’m putting a trip wire across the entrance to protect you, okay?”

The idea that they were about to be left here, alone, defenseless, and bound, did not sit at all well with the king, nor, by the dismay in those brown eyes, with Kíli. The younger prince tried one last plea with his brother, not bothering to hide the unfeigned panic in his voice.

“Fíli, I won’t leave, I promise! Don’t leave me tied!”

The blonde hesitated, a wealth of emotions in the blue depths of his eyes as he faced his brother one more time, face tormented. The words he whispered left no doubt as to the level of trauma the other had been concealing so well for much of the time that they’d been alive once more.

“I can’t risk it, not with you. I have to keep you safe, Kíli.”

With that, he ducked around the roots and out of sight, splashing footsteps in the water faintly heard for a while longer as he rigged the trap he’d told Kíli he would. Thorin’s younger sister-son, meanwhile, had sat where his brother left him in the gloom of the cave, shivering slightly in spite of the quickly rising steamy heat of the day working its way into their cool hiding hole. After no further sounds had been heard from the entrance for perhaps half an hour, Kíli finally turned to glance back at his uncle before attempting to push himself to his feet. The prince stood for several seconds, but his legs wobbled beneath him as if he were once more a baby dwarfling just learning to walk, sending him tumbling back to the rock floor. The Khuzdul curse that was muttered, however, was definitely not one any dwarfling should know! Thorin willed the other to look up and see the question written on his face, but the dark head stayed stubbornly down.

“I’m fine!”

The fierce mutter was the most blatant lie he’d ever heard from his younger sister-son, but the king was powerless to call him on it. The prince sighed heavily, resorting to scooting his way over to his uncle on his backside. Once there, Thorin willingly leaned forward to allow his nephew access to the cloth gag, nimble archer’s fingers making short work of the knot even hampered the way they were. As the king worked his sore jaw and dismally dry mouth, Kíli held up the water skin he’d brought over with him for his uncle to accept several greedily sucked in mouthfuls before taking several sips himself.

“What is the matter with him, uncle? He’s gone insane! He thinks you’re Saruman!”

“I heard.” Thorin admitted drily, leaning forward at Kili’s prompt to allow him to work on the wrist bindings, though the older dwarf did not believe he’d be able to do much there. His hands had gone numb quite some time ago, blood sticky on them from where the leather had bitten into the flesh. “I think he may have swallowed something, or gotten it into that cut on his arm when he fell. If that’s the case, it should wear off soon, within the next day, at least. We may have to play along until then, Kíli.”

There was some fierce muttering and several sharp tugs on his wrists that woke the pain, though Thorin kept himself still. Finally, Kíli spoke louder.

“For the first time, he actually frightens me, Uncle.”

“I know. Just remember, Kíli, that his strongest instincts will be those of a big brother. Even when he sees everyone else as a threat, I do not believe he will harm you.”

It was a belief that Thorin was finding harder and harder to hold onto in the face of Fíli’s actions. His nephew had to be under the influence of a powerful hallucinogen to cross so many lines, who knew what the other would do next?

“Can an herb really do that to someone? Make them think friends are actually enemies?”

Thorin sighed, unpleasant memories quickly rising to the fore at the question.

“Unfortunately, yes. Do you remember passing through a village in Dunland when you were little more than a baby and a woman tried to steal you in the marketplace?”

Kíli couldn’t have been more than five, barely old enough to have any memories at all at the time. The dwarves of Erebor had been wanderers, making their way slowly west toward the Blue Mountains that would become their home after the horrific slaughter at the hands of Azog’s orcs. It had been a harsh time, with every family mourning friends or loved ones lost to the Fall of Erebor or the recent battles, and half of the very few children born dying before their first birthdays. Thus, the births of not one, but two princes within five years had been doubly celebratory, and the little dwarflings jealously guarded by all, kin or not. As hard as it had been, however, at least Dis still had her husband at her side, the boys’ their father. Only three years later, after finally settling in a new home after decades of wandering, the re-opened mine had collapsed, and Dis’ world had crumbled around her once more, leaving Thorin alone to help her raise two dwarflings as best they could.

“I- I think so. There was yelling? And a woman accusing Mother and Father of stealing the children of men to turn into dwarves?”

“Aye. She was whipping the other villagers up into a frenzy that could easily have become a mob after us. You and Fíli both fell asleep, but we walked all night and the next day to put distance between us lest they try to ‘rescue’ you and the other dwarflings with us. Afterward, I found out that the villagers turned upon each other in their paranoia, denouncing their neighbors as agents of Sauron. A score were hanged and one man pressed to death before sanity was restored.”

The hands on his arms stilled, and then resumed their tugging.

“Pressed?”

“The accused is tied between two wooden planks, one underneath and one on top, with rocks placed on top of that to slowly increase the weight until they confess or die.”

“That’s barbaric!” Kíli sounded absolutely horrified. “Not to mention irrational. If the person confesses, they’re taken out to be hanged, and if they don’t, they’re crushed to death!”

With his nephew’s body pressed close to his as he worked on the bindings, Thorin was easily able to feel the shudder of memory that wracked the other’s slight frame, and the king berated himself for bringing it up, though he knew that Porir’s death would have been so swift the dwarf probably didn’t suffer any pain.

“I doubt rationality ever came into it, Kíli.” He remarked disparagingly instead, hoping to divert his nephew’s thoughts. “It rarely does with such mass hysteria.”

“And an herb really caused all that?”

“Yes.” It was hard for Thorin to believe, too, even after all these years. “A fungus that grows on wheat in exceptionally wet growing seasons. The villagers didn’t clean the wheat properly and it was ground into the flour. It causes paranoia, hallucinations, and illness.”

“So every day when they ate the bread, they received another dose!”

Had he been able to see the younger dwarf’s face, Thorin was sure the eyes would have been wide with startled realization, horrified shock plain to see. The silence stretched for several minutes, the king content to let it until he heard several disparaging remarks Kíli muttered about himself under his breath, tone telling his uncle that the younger dwarf was nearing his breaking point.

“Kíli, leave it for now. We can do nothing exhausted anyway.”

The king enforced his directive by the simple expedient of leaning back to rest his sore body against the chill rock, bound hands no longer accessible. The other sighed, another shiver wracking his frame as the prince moved to lean against the wall next to his uncle. 

“No.” Thorin’s sharp command halted the movement, Kíli finally bringing his head up in confusion, which allowed his uncle to see the pale skin and red flush of the cheeks. “Not in those soaked clothes, the rock is cold. Lean against me, Kíli.”

He wasn’t surprised when no protest was forthcoming, Kíli willingly scooting around to rest with his head on Thorin’s shoulder. The king ducked his head to place one cheek against the younger dwarf’s forehead, dismayed to feel the degree of heat there.

“Fíli was right about one thing, you’re running a fever again. Keep sipping that water, you need to stay hydrated. How are your legs?”

The answer came in a pained, despairing whisper.

“When I fell on the rocks, I think I hit the place on my back where I was injured. My legs… I can’t seem to move them properly again.”

That was exactly what Thorin was afraid of, though he kept his tone light in answer.

“You probably jarred the scar tissue. It will most likely be fine with a bit of rest, Kíli.”

“Uncle, I-“

“Shh… Rest, Kíli.”

To cut off any further protest, Thorin began to hum softly, as he had when Kíli was little; knowing the tone and the vibration would sooth the other. Soon enough, he was able to stop with a soft chuckle, shifting as much as he was able to more comfortably settle the limp body that lay heavy against him. Thorin’s eyes wandered to the entrance to their hideaway, knowing that he took a risk at Fíli’s reaction when he returned to find them thus, but he would not, could not, turn his younger nephew away to sleep curled on the cold stone.


	34. Echoes of the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Durin proves that elves and dwarves can be in the same room without insulting one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

34\. Echoes of the Past

Thorin contented himself with watching the shadows play on the walls of their cave, light reflecting off the water causing an almost hypnotic dance, especially when added to the colors of the Arkenstone shining from Kili’s partially wrapped palm. Despite the reassuring illusion he’d woven for his young nephew, Thorin knew the truth- this could not be the result of ergot, even if the other had somehow ingested some falling down that hill. This was something stronger, and much darker, sending a chill down his spine with every glint of those blue eyes. Deep inside him, knowledge whispered, a hint of another time, another life… Every nerve tensed at a splash or creak of wood, but they remained alone as time crawled past, Thorin at last nodding off despite the worries swirling through his mind.

_3441, Second Age_

_Durin’s thoughts were troubled as he walked the echoing stone halls, corridors that once rang with the shouts of dwarflings at play too long silent, dust covering the floors. Closing the doors of Khazad-dûm had saved his people from the shadows stalking the outside world, but at what cost? Each year, fewer were born, and not just to Durin’s Folk; the Broadbeams and Firebeards living amongst them had seen a similar dwindling, more and more of the ancient realm devoid of life as they closed off excess space. Battle losses, too, had taken their toll, yet what choice did they have?_

_How the Great Deceiver must laugh, even though his dark tower of Barad-dûr had been under siege for seven long years! There was strength yet in Mordor, breeding pits multiplying the foul ranks of his creatures far faster than even the growth of the race of Men. All knew that they must force a final confrontation now, make Sauron himself take the field, before the Dark Lord’s forces were fully prepared, or they, and all of Middle Earth with them, stood no chance. So soon they would march, then, with the last of their reserve troops and all of the weapons forged with their greatest skill, such as the new hollow steel bows made for their Númenórean allies, to join the camps surrounding the Dark Tower._

_Yet even now, what hope of victory did they truly hold, this last, desperate alliance of men, elves, and dwarves?_

_Durin IV shook his head, banishing such poisonous thoughts lest they prove as deadly as the sharpest blade in the hands of their foes. Silently, he pushed open the council room door, noting with approval that the heavy stone still swung with barely a whisper at the slightest touch of the hand. This was the legacy of his people, the fine craftsmanship that would last long past any mortal life, even should they fall beneath Sauron’s tainted hand. The Lords and Captains of the Last Alliance would gather here on the morrow, he among them, to secretly plan their last assault in the one realm viewed still as free of spies and impervious to the mechanizations of assassins._

_How little they suspected the truth! His realm, the greatest of the dwarven kingdoms, was under siege from within, the darkness lurking around every corner. Walls of stone had proven no match for the seductive lies of Sauron, and the greed of dwarves was legendary. The Amrad Azaghálh, the Warriors of Death, that was what he had finally discovered that they called themselves; their power was proving greater in these dark days than any among the Seven Kings of the Khazad had suspected._

_Gazing around the stone table, the dwarven king noted with slightly bitter satisfaction that all was in readiness, each chair backed by the banner of its proposed occupant. His own flag of golden hammer, anvil, crown and seven stars on brown edged with red was at the head of the table, of course. As the host, he was expected to exert some manner of control and coherency to this squabbling bunch, not raise his races’ own ancient grievances with the others; a sorely trying position for the proud dwarf of Durin’s Folk who’d already been forced to smile and welcome those he’d rather meet over the blade of his war ax. Fortunately, those at his immediate right and left hands were not among those!_

_To his left was the light blue and silver star field of the High King of Noldor, Gil-Galad, long a friend to the rulers of Khazad-dûm, and one of the leaders of this assault upon Mordor. For an elf, the tall king was an excellent fighter, though no dwarf would think a spear a proper weapon of war, no matter how powerful. At Durin’s right hand stood the black with simple tengwar script in white used by the High King of the Númenóreans, Elendil, with the black banner and white tree of his son and heir, Isildur, next to him. Beyond that was yet another chair in the black of Gondor, but this one bore no insignia and would remain empty tomorrow, a mute testimony to the losses that all the races had already suffered, for Anarion, Elendil’s other son, had fallen last year. The younger prince’s helm had been crushed by a boulder rolled down one of the steep canyon walls of Gorgoroth by orcs, a critical loss as he had so ably led the armies of the alliance until then._

_The sight was made all the more bitter for the dwarven king with the recently received intelligence that many of the weapons cutting down their troops were dwarven forged, made for Mordor’s forces by the Blacklocks of the East, yet another banner that was either on the wrong side, or absent altogether. At the thought of his race, his eyes swept the other places, lips pressed tightly at the sight of the green banner with golden eight pointed star of Glorfindel, the dark blue field with its gold tree and white star of Lothlorien, the green with its white tree of the Woodland Realm, and the dark blue with the white star of-_

_“You could not force them to come, my friend.”_

_Durin sighed, quick to cover his startle of surprise as the tall figure glided from the shadows by the dark blue banner marking his place._

_“A plague upon the stealthy feet and unnatural intuition of the elves!” He was not even aware that he had muttered that aloud in Khuzdul until the other raised one elegant eyebrow in amusement, one of the few outside the dwarven race to have been allowed to learn their language. With a huff, he turned to face the elf fully. “I know that you oppose my going into battle with no heir to take my place, but causing a heart seizure is a rather underhanded method to stop it, Elrond!”_

_The Herald of Gil-Galad pinned him with a pointed stare, unwilling to be diverted by his friend’s grumpy complaint._

_“They are afraid to lose what they have built.”_

_Durin snorted contemptuously at that._

_“They are greedy cowards who cannot see past their stacks of gold, you mean. There should have been six more banners at this table, Elrond, but not a one of the other dwarven kingdoms answered my call! Not even the Broadbeams and Firebeards of Ered Luin, who have distant kin within my forces. If we lose because of lack of warriors, I wish them luck with the Lord of Mordor as their master; they will deserve every whip stroke!”_

_“We have long known that we would be outnumbered, Durin, but there is no longer a choice. Every day of delay increased the odds that we might lose, even with the additional troops from Lothlorien and the Greenwood.”_

_That received a reaction, the dwarf rolling his eyes at the thought of the prancing pointy-eared pains._

_“You mean especially with those on our side. My Warmaster, Skód, tells me that they are worse than useless!”_

_The flash of anger echoed in the elven lord’s own dark eyes made the dwarf stiffen, flicking his fingers in contemptuous dismissal at the representative banners before crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes at the taller being._

_“What have those arrogant tree-lovers done now?”_

_Elrond gave his friend a reproving look for the derogatory term even as he sank into his chair, showing a weariness rarely seen among one of the Firstborn._

_“Neither Oropher of the Greenwood nor Amdir of Lothlorien will consent to place their forces under Gil-Galad’s overall command.”_

_Durin grunted, stroking his long brown beard, which had begun to show its first streaks of grey._

_“My weapons smiths say that they accept no aid with armor or weapons, either, though we are vastly more skilled in such things. Have you asked Celeborn to speak with Amdir? And that snooty prince of Oropher’s, Thrandell? Thrandeff? Thran something.”_

_“Thranduil. Yes, and neither of them have been able to budge their lords.”_

_“Humph. They’ve always been jealous of you Noldor. Sounds to me like your High King needs to pin a few pointy ears back, my friend.”_

_“As you have with these…Death Warriors?”_

_There was an edge to Elrond’s tone that set the dwarf bristling, only their long standing tradition of candor with one another holding his volcanic temper in check. The elven lord was one of the few outside of the dwarven race to be privy to such internal issues, and to have him throw it in Durin’s face now was an underhanded blow._

_“Yes, I freely admit that I underestimated them, believing it no more than a few corrupt idiots! Have I not paid more than enough forfeiture for that error in the blood of my own House? Must my own friends polish that fool’s gold in front of me?”_

_The elf’s stern features softened, the compassion of a healer shining through as he rested a hand gently on the dwarf’s armored arm._

_“I apologize, Durin, I had no call to make such a remark.”_

_The sorrow and regret in the tone twisted Durin’s stomach, knowing what the other did not yet say. He sank heavily into a chair, nodding, but not meeting the elf’s eyes._

_“Then there is truly nothing that can be done?”_

_“No. The taint is too strong for even my skills to banish. I have left herbs that will keep him calm, manageable, for now, but eventually they will no longer be effective.” There was a long silence before Elrond ventured his suggestion softly. “There are others who would aid you in this, my friend. When the time comes, you need not take his life by your own hand.”_

_“It is my responsibility, Elrond.” Durin finally glanced up, the sorrow and pain he’d been living with these past two weeks heavy in exhausted dark eyes. “He is my only son. My heir!”_

_In a burst of anger, one mailed fist hit the stone table with a bang that echoed like thunder, but the elf remained unruffled, one hand covering the hand of his friend before it could be slammed again. Finally, the dwarf raised his gaze to meet the compassionate one of the elf._

_“Your son died two weeks ago in that dark cavern, Durin. What is locked up below is nothing more than a shell poisoned by the taint of Mordor that he was forced to drink. When the Dark Lord failed to turn your people and mine into his shadowy servants as he did the kings of men, I believe he looked to other, more subtle ways to dominate them. It was his will that the body of your son carried out when he attempted to kill your baby grandson, and that taint will only grow; I have seen it too many times already in these dark years. By sealing Khazad-dûm, you were able to spare your people that.”_

_“Until now. Is there no power on Middle Earth that can cleanse him?”_

_“If there is, it abides with Illuvatar yet.”_

Thorin was jolted from the past by a hand roughly shaking him, opening dazed eyes to meet blue ones tainted with the same madness that once gazed out through the eyes of the son of Durin IV, and he could not withhold the cry of despair.


	35. Wizard of the Woodlands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Radagast makes an appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

35\. Wizard of the Woodlands

“Wake up!”

The harsh bark of command cut off Thorin’s cry as he was abruptly jolted from the vision. For a moment, it became difficult to separate past from present, the feel of Elrond’s fingers on his arm leaving a ghost of warmth that was lost as a boot connected with his ribs, instinctively making him curl up as much as possible where he lay on the cold stone. Thorin grimaced, using the cover of the blow, which actually hadn’t been that hard, to seek out his younger nephew sprawled on his side a few feet away, face white and dark eyes haunted as he stared at his older brother, then latched onto his uncle’s deep blue gaze as if to a life-line.

Something had shaken the younger dwarf to his core, the king noted with concern, though he was given no opportunity to ask, Fíli yanking him roughly upright. The other proceeded to check on the ties around his wrists and ankles before straightening up with a grunt of satisfaction that turned quickly to a derisive sneer, such an unnatural expression on the normally smiling face that Thorin couldn’t hide his wince. Any doubts he might have held about the effects of the taint on his nephew were wiped out in that instant, the gleam of darkness too easily recognized to be ignored.

“Good luck getting free of those anytime soon!”

With a move that was plainly deliberate, the blonde started to step over his uncle before once more landing a kick, this time with enough force to steal away any breathe his captive had left. As Thorin doubled over once more, he vaguely registered Kili’s cry of protest.

“Fíli! You didn’t have to do that!”

Even as he fought to breathe once more, Thorin cursed, certain that the entire incident had been staged to provoke just such a reaction from Kíli. If they were ever to convince Fíli that his brother could be trusted free, it would not due to show empathy for an ‘enemy’, though one look at Kili’s strained, exhausted face told his uncle that the younger dwarf was right on the edge and probably hadn’t been able to stop himself. Something in Kili’s large brown eyes caught at the other, however, because the twisted mask was dropped from the older brother’s countenance as suddenly as it had appeared and he knelt next to his sibling, pressing a cup into bound hands.

“I know it’s not much of a breakfast, Kee, but you need to drink it.” For the first time that Thorin could recall, Kíli flinched from his older brother’s touch as the other ran a hand over his forehead, brushing aside dark bangs. “Fever’s gone, let’s see if we can keep it that way. I don’t really know how far we need to travel.”

The brunette glanced up warily at that, lips twisting in distaste as he obediently drank the herbal concoction.

“Where are we going? Is he coming?”

Kíli had managed just a hint of bitterness to his tone this time, jerking his chin at his uncle. When Fíli didn’t bother to follow the movement to his captive, Thorin allowed a slight smile to touch his lips, giving a quick nod of approval for the acting.

“I think that there may be someone nearby, a friend of Gandalf’s that has dealt with such illness and enchantments before. I’m taking you to him for help… if I can find him. And no, we’re leaving Thranduil here.”

Thorin’s attention was so caught in Fíli’s intended destination that he took no note of what his nephew believed him to be this time, shock sending a chill through his body. What was it Elrond had said to Durin so long ago? That the power needed to cleanse the taint might still reside with Illuvatar? The Istari, powerful and seemingly unaging wizards, had not yet walked the roads of Middle Earth at the end of the Second Age! And had not Legolas stated that he intended to send a message to Radagast the Brown so that the nature loving wizard could cleanse the very area where Fíli had fallen and this nightmare began?

“No! Fíli, you can’t! He’ll die before anyone finds him! That’s murder!”

The distressed tone of his younger sister-son brought the king’s awareness back to the little cave in time to see Kíli attempt to stand only to fall back to the ground with a guttural cry of pain.

“Kíli! What’s wrong, little brother? Kee?”

Thorin had to clench his jaw to bite back his own entreaties, twisting to try and see around Fíli’s bulk leaning over his brother to run careful hands looking for injuries. Finally, Kíli seemed to respond, bound hands latching onto one of his brother’s arms, hoarse whisper barely carrying to Thorin’s ears.

“My back!”

Fíli swiftly and gently pulled free his brother’s tunic to expose the hurting dwarf’s back, moan of dismay at what was revealed there matching Thorin’s own.

“Oh, Kee…”

The younger prince’s skin still bore the large healed scar marking the once fatal injury, but the tissue was now red and swollen, with black bruising surrounding it. Fíli was quick to lower the fabric, carefully straightening it before meeting his brother’s watery brown eyes.

“The rock you fell on yesterday morning?”

“Yes.”

Kíli sounded so unbelievably young and forlorn, matching the childhood nickname that Fíli had so suddenly resumed calling him. Whether it was intended or not, it was succeeding in bringing out the deeply ingrained core of the older brother, the protector, which was definitely not anything like the cold, calculating creature that Durin’s son had become. Was Fíli able to fight the taint in some fashion or perhaps its effects had been weakened by the fall of Barad-dûr? As swiftly as hope rose in the older dwarf, it was once more thwarted as his captor towered above him, blue eyes as cold as the far reaches of the mountains.

Wordlessly, Fíli shoved his uncle forward and slit the leather binding his wrists, pulling his arms around to the front of his body. Shoulders streaked pain down his arms and black edged Thorin’s vision as he fought to retain consciousness against the assault. By the time his senses cleared, his hands were once more tightly bound by leather, but he could now see the mangled, swollen flesh.

“My brother can’t walk, so you’re going to carry him, elf. If you so much as jar him the wrong way…”

Thorin met his older sister-son’s anger with cool sincerity, grateful that at least this much of Fíli remained.

“I would sooner die than hurt him.”

Fíli grunted, apparently satisfied, and turned away, aiding his brother to lean back against the rock wall near Thorin before starting to stuff items back into his pack. Taking advantage of the blonde’s distraction, the older dwarf leaned over slightly to whisper a question to his nephew.

“Yesterday?”

The brunette glanced warily at his brother’s back, face pinched and pale, with dark circles under his eyes. If Kíli had gotten more than a few hours’ sleep in this last day, Thorin would be very surprised. The answer was the calm cadence of the mature prince, not the traumatized dwarfling, wordlessly reassuring his uncle that the other had read his brother’s attitude and was playing to it. At least partially; that brown gaze still held too much raw fear to be faked.

“We’ve been here a full day. We could not wake you yesterday and it enraged him. He spent an hour raving about the filth of orcs, and then I made the mistake of trying to persuade him to handle the Arkenstone. That was worth another two hours of anger and the loss of our supper. I’m just glad that there must not have been anyone near enough to hear him, or we’d have had our enemies down on us.”

Not to mention scared his younger nephew half out of his wits. Thorin sighed, trying to decide how much to share with the other. Kíli would not easily give up on his brother, and truthfully, Thorin wasn’t willing to, either. If nothing else, Kili’s idea of using the Arkenstone might be tried. It had proven able to heal, not to mention raise the dead seventy-seven years in the tomb!

“What of those following us?”

The other prince must not have been as inattentive as his captives had assumed, turning at the question with a smug smile that filled his uncle with dread.

“If you count upon your elves to save you, Thranduil, I suggest you think again.” Thorin was so outraged at being addressed thus that he almost missed the next words, anger drumming in his ears. “They ran into Saruman’s Uruk-hai and the cult’s mercenaries yesterday. For some reason, the groups didn’t seem to care all that much for one another and were having a rather spirited discussion about it when I left. Bloody, too.”

Kili’s head had darted up at the information, eyes wide in alarm, but he thankfully refrained from pressing his brother on it. Thorin cast a quick prayer to Mahal for their safety, though he knew that almost all within the party they’d left behind were seasoned warriors, well able to deal with a handful of mercenaries and orcs.

Soon enough, Kíli was up on his uncle’s back, legs tucked firmly under Thorin’s upper arms and his own arms around the king’s neck, tightening apprehensively as the older dwarf had to duck and twist slightly to get them past the roots hiding the opening of their cave. In this manner, however, the trio was able to travel quickly in the dawn’s light, forest animals just beginning to stir for their day, a welcome sign of normal life. It was heartening to hear the birds singing, though few in numbers, and even the pelting of nuts on their heads by an irritated squirrel was met with good grace. It was perhaps an hour into their trek when his passenger began to mutter softly half to himself.

“What if Fíli’s telling the truth? Maybe I’m the one dreaming all this…”

Thorin sighed, knowing that such thoughts had been inevitable. Kíli had looked up to and trusted his older brother implicitly for his entire life, to doubt him now when Fíli seemed so certain could not have been easy.

“If you believe that Thranduil would so willingly stoop to carrying you thus, you have listened to nothing I taught you of elves.”

Thorin remarked sourly, feeling a faint laugh coarse through the body of the other. Granted, the king was finding himself forced to revise his previous opinion of Elrond, a bitter draught to drink if there ever was one, but that did not mean his

prejudices were entirely invalid. After all, history recorded that Oropher’s and Amdir’s refusal to fight under Gil-Galad, and their own incompetence, had led to their deaths on the slopes of Mount Doom! Being mistaken for Thranduil, however, still rankled. It was about the worst insult he could think of, and to have it come from the mouth of his own nephew!

To pass the time as they walked, Thorin began to quietly tell of his newly gained memories from Durin IV and the days of the Last Alliance, something that earned several glares from Fíli, though he did nothing to stop it. Kíli, always fascinated by history as a dwarfling, was enthralled, though Durin’s tart assessments of the Silvan elves earned laughter. As evening approached, Fíli at last called a halt, helping his brother down and then pushing Thorin to sit by a large fallen log, retying his legs for the night. The king watched bitterly, but did not fight it, thankful the younger dwarf was at least no longer intent on gagging him as well.

A meal was made of whatever dried vegetables and meats Fíli still had in his pack, the smell wafting temptingly around the clearing when the old man shuffled into their campsite as calmly as if he were out for an evening stroll. It took a moment for Thorin to recognize the brown wizard, still dressed in what looked to be the same stained, wrinkled brown suit he’d worn when they met him so long ago outside Rivendell, and his baggy felt hat was as ridiculous as ever. Radagast was muttering to himself, but stopped short when the tip of one of Fíli’s twin blades touched the front of his clothing, glancing up in surprise.

“Oh, my…” The wizard glanced around at them before turning back to look down on Fíli with a puzzled frown. “Was I expecting you? Can’t say as I remember inviting dwarves over, but I forget things sometimes. Radagast. Yes, Radagast the Brown, that’s me, you know.” The old one paused, expectant silence stretching until he shoved Fíli’s sword tip away with an exasperated huff, poking at the prince with his staff. “I believe it is polite to give one’s name in return at this point, young dwarf! Really! What are they teaching children these days…? And Gandalf chides me for preferring the company of my furry woodland friends…”

Dismissing the older prince when the blonde simply stood there staring at him in confusion, the old man proceeded to squat down by the fire, pulling various bags and cups from inside his robes and the beat up satchel that he carried. A three-striped ground squirrel appeared with a sprig of green in his mouth, Radagast absently taking it with a soft thank you, one gnarled finger running down the little creature’s back as it shivered in pleasure before scampering off. As the wizard began to crumble herbs into three cups he’d set out, Fíli finally sheathed his swords, visibly taken aback by the other.

“I’m Fíli and this is my brother, Kíli. We’ve come to ask for your aid.”

Radagast’s head shot up, one eye opening so wide it turned into a circle of white. “Aid? Brother? I did not think it customary to restrain one claimed as kin, but I know little of dwarves. They don’t care much for my forest. You’d do better to ask Gandalf, if you can find him. Never around when you want him, that one, always too busy going hither and yon with strange groups of people. I once found him with a group of thirteen of them, and a hobbit, if you can believe that!” The wizard paused, head cocking to one side. “Though I’ve always rather liked Bilbo Baggins, come to think of it. Always saying hello and offering me tea when I was around the Shire or Imladris. That dwarf leader he was with, though, brrr… Overly serious fellow with a very nasty temper, couldn’t see what was right under his nose.”

With that, the wizard handed Fíli one of the cups now filled with steaming water that had been poured straight from their water skins, bringing the other over to Kíli. As Radagast made a production out of ensuring that the younger prince had a firm hold on the cup with his bound hands, the scraggly head came up to meet Thorin’s gaze, giving one slow, deliberate wink as a wicked humor glinted there, backed by all the wisdom and power of the Istari. Abruptly, the façade of the befuddled hermit was back in place, looking over his shoulder at Fíli.

“What is it you think I might be able to aid with, young dwarf?”

Fíli took a tentative sip of his cup, then a longer swallow.

“I believe my brother has been infected with the Shadow’s taint. I’ve been told that you are one of the few upon Middle Earth that can banish such things.”

“Hmmm…” The wizard sounded a bit doubtful as he turned back to the younger dwarf that he knelt in front of, taking the prince’s chin to peer intently into his face. “Yes… yes… So I see, very interesting. Finish your tea, young Fíli, and you and I will deal with this mess.”

The blonde seemed to sag at the news, letting out a sigh of pure, honest relief.

“Thank Mahal.” He tossed back the rest of the herbal drink in one motion, turning to the now standing wizard. “What do we need to dooo…?”

The last vocal sound trailed off as Fíli’s eyes rolled up in his head and his body slumped, as if one of Bofur’s puppets whose strings had just been cut. Kili’s cry of alarm mixed with Thorin’s roar, the wizard regarding them in mild irritation.

“What did you do?!”

Radagast’s answer, however, was addressed to the insensible form at his feet.

“Do? Why, nothing, young Fíli. I know the foul brew of sorcery when I encounter it, and it was not in young Kíli.”

The ragged old man quickly toddled over to the raven-haired prince, who had been struggling to stand, cutting him free with a knife pulled from within his robes and drawing the dwarf up. Radagast quickly grabbed him when his legs started to fold once more, thrusting his staff into Kili’s hands and almost bowling over the dwarf before he could steady himself.

“Well, this won’t do, will it? And what’s this?”

One large hand pulled Kili’s marked one from where it clutched the wood, colors bathing the face of the Istari as he bent to peer closely at the image of the Arkenstone. The prince flinched when the wizard traced the outer blue lines with one finger, muttering with his eyes rolled back in his head, then Kíli gasped and straightened, no longer clutching the staff as his only means to stay upright. Thorin pulled himself up straighter in disbelief as he saw the raw scrapes from the rocks on the outside of his nephew’s hand heal before his eyes.

The clearing seemed to grow darker as shadows grew around them, the words the Istari spoke echoing as if from the bottom of a chasm, power making the very air around them crackle. Beside them, Fíli’s body began to twitch and then fully convulse, the older prince rolling to the side where a thick, stinking black fluid burst out of his mouth as if being expelled.

“Fíli!”

Thorin’s cry of alarm echoed in the night as he fought his bonds once more, desperate to find a way to his nephews’ sides. Kíli himself had gone still, hand clutching Radagast’s staff in a death grip as tiny rippling echoes of Fíli’s harsher convulsions shook his thin frame. Leaning over, the king was at last able to receive a clear glimpse of his face, which only doubled his alarm. Kili’s expression was slack, eyes rolled back in his head until only the white was showing.

Finally, a gust of wind cut through their camp, Fíli’s body curling into a fetal position and rolling away from the fuming black mess, stopping almost to Kili’s feet as the tremors subsided, though there was no sign of consciousness. Instead, the dwarf seemed to be fighting each breath he took. Kíli gasped, distressed gaze pinned on his brother’s form even though he was barely keeping his own body upright with Radagast’s support.

The wizard wordlessly guided the brunette down to sit with his brother’s head in his lap, pressing Kili’s marked palm flat against Fíli’s forehead. The instant it made contact, there was a flash of light, and the older prince’s breathing became a slow, steady cadence of healthy sleep instead of the distressed gasping and choking of only moments before. As if summoned by some silent means, several mice scurried from under the log near Thorin while birds swooped low over his head, each bringing an unknown herb with tiny white flowers to drop onto the foul mess. Reclaiming his staff, Radagast swung it casually over the little pile, making the entire thing burst into blue flame and sending a familiar clean scent through the clearing.

“There now, that’s better. That is a great power you hold. You stay there, young prince, I need to see to your uncle.”

“My brother-“

The words were faint, as if the speaker were not truly aware of saying anything, Kíli still sitting in the exact position as when Radagast pushed him down.

“Will be fine.” There was nothing of the doddering old fool about the figure now. Rather, there was an air of power and confidence about the wizard that Thorin normally associated with Gandalf. “He was already fighting the taint himself; you and the herbs I gave him will help clear the last of it. You’re lucky its power fades with the passing of Sauron’s dominion; that muck he fell into carried the remnants of the filth Lady Galadriel washed from Dol Guldur.”

Thorin sighed, sagging back against the log in sheer relief as Radagast knelt and quickly sliced through the leather ties on his legs.

“How did you know what had happened?”

He asked, making the old man pause with one eyebrow cocked up as if trying to recall how he should answer. After several moments, his face brightened, one finger rising to point at the dwarf king’s face.

“Legolas!”

The wizard offered no more than that, concentration abruptly diverted as he began to tsk at the sight of Thorin’s wrists, hurrying off to retrieve the third cup from the fire. This he held to the dwarf’s mouth.

“Drink this.”

The king pulled back, eyeing the stuff, which swirled in odd patterns of green and red, the odor sickly sweet.

“What is it?”

A moment later, he had to wonder if Radagast had learned that exasperated face from Gandalf, or the other way around. He wouldn’t have been at all surprised to hear a deep voice muttering about the ‘stubbornness of dwarves!’ The brown wizard, however, settled for rolling his eyes and then speaking slowly and gently, as if to a child.

“It will help with the pain and prevent infection that is all. Oh, and a pinch of something to clear any of the taint you may have picked up. This foul mood of yours can be a symptom of that, you know.”

There was a choke from behind the old man that dissolved into a false sounding fit of coughing that could only belong to a certain nephew of his covering his laughter. Thorin scowled, but let it be, deciding that his younger nephew could certainly use a laugh after the last several days, and did not turn away when Radagast again offered the cup. The taste was sweet, but not obnoxiously so, and certainly better than any draught Thorin had ever tasted before this. The wizard set the empty cup aside and set about fussing with pulling bandages and other herbs from his pouch, glancing up once in a while to stare at the dwarf, assessing.

Finally, just as Thorin was about to snap at him, there was an odd rushing in his ears and the world spun about him, leaving him leaning limply back against the log once more as muscles refused to respond to his command. Some part of the king noted that this seemed to be what Radagast had been waiting for, deftly slicing the leather and peeling it from swollen flesh. It should have hurt fiercely, especially when the wizard carefully cleaned out every cut and furrow, but it was as if the body being tended belonged to someone else.

Radagast was speaking, the light baritone of Kíli occasionally answering, but the sound was garbled, stretching and contracting until it was bass rumbles lingering on each vowel sound, or high pitched chattering no more intelligible than that of a squirrel. His vision, also, was dancing and twirling as if looking through agitated water, the paste Radagast was smearing on his abused wrists seeming to turn a rainbow of different colors. At last, wounds wrapped, a hand guided him down to lay with his head pillowed on something soft, a voice whispering that it was safe for him to sleep, to give over his worries and burdens for this one night and truly rest.


	36. To Walk in Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fili confronts the darker part of his own nature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

36\. To Walk in Darkness

When Thorin woke, the clearing was filled with dwarves bustling about in the morning light. Surprised, the king tried to shift his sore body into a seated position only to stifle a groan and squeeze his eyes shut as his shoulders radiated pain down both arms and across his chest. Before he could tumble back onto the blankets, however, hands caught him, easing him upright and holding there until the other was certain he wouldn’t simply flop back over. Thorin almost did anyway as he opened his eyes to find Glóin’s face only inches away, peering at him intently in an eerie recreation of the Brown Wizard’s actions of the previous night. Thorin groaned, glaring at his cousin as the instinctive flinch stirred abused muscles once more.

“Is there a reason you’re in my face, Glóin?”

If the other was ruffled by his kinsman’s temper, he didn’t show it, simply backing away with a satisfied grunt, though Thorin could not imagine what everyone was finding so fascinating in his face.

“You look better than we had any right to expect. Dis!”

The sharp summons brought not only Thorin’s sister, but Dwalin as well, both visibly brightening at seeing him awake.

“How are you feeling, brother?”

“Sore.” He grumbled sourly, trying to look around them to see who else was in the clearing as her mode of address jolted his memories of the previous night to the fore. “Fíli? Kíli?”

“I’m fine, Uncle.” The voice came from behind him, making Thorin twist around to see his younger nephew walking towards them with only the aid of a stout stick. “Fíli- Radagast left with him this morning just before the others arrived.”

There was an apprehension in the prince’s words, as if he waited to be scolded, though that was the furthest thing from Thorin’s mind. He’d learned long ago that it seldom went well to challenge a wizard.

“How was Fíli when they left? Did you speak to him?”

Their uncle fervently hoped not, mostly because he did not want Kíli to have gone through that alone. He had seen a side to his brother that he would not soon forget, and it would be hard to tell how much was truly Fíli and how much the darkness inherent in anything touched by Mordor’s dead lord. The younger dwarf, however, was too calm for any such interaction to have taken place, with an air of sadness and worry about him as the brunette head shook.

“He was still unconscious. Radagast put Fíli on that sled of his and told me to stay here, that the others were coming and the animals he’s friends with would keep watch.”

Kíli folded himself down onto the ground next to his uncle with much of the innate grace he’d always had, but which had been conspicuously absent since their return to the living. As the prince laid the stick he’d been using across his lap, the king recognized it as the branch he had been slowly working on during their journey. He’d been meaning to present it to Kíli when the other no longer needed the crutches, but feared it had been lost when Fíli yanked them from camp so unexpectedly. His nephew’s hands were slowly tracing the scenes carved into it, taken from their quest so long ago, pausing to trace the outline of the mountain with the Arkenstone at its heart.

“Radagast… I don’t know what he did, but my back is much better, and I feel stronger than I have since waking…here.”

The emphasis he placed on the last word made it clear that the prince meant their new time and surroundings, not the forest. Thorin could scarcely comprehend the change as he intently examined his younger sister-son. There was brightness to Kili’s eyes and liveliness to his expression that had been too often supplanted by constant exhaustion; a weakness that the other now showed no sign of beyond the need for a walking stick to aid his steps. For this change alone, the king was willing to give the wizard the benefit of the doubt and wait as instructed. For a while, anyway. Thorin reached out, stifling the resulting groan, and ruffled the wild hair affectionately, earning a cheeky grin from the prince.

His nephew’s smile slipped, however, worry in those expressive eyes quickly reminding his uncle that all were not yet whole. The raven head glanced at those surrounding him, then dropped back to staring at the detail on the walking stick, words a soft, forlorn whisper that they could barely hear.

“For the first time that I can remember, I don’t know what to say to him, or even if I’ll be able to look at him.”

The three older dwarves shared pained grimaces of helplessness at that, unsure themselves of how to deal with this latest mess. None needed to be told to whom Kíli referred.

“Kíli, no. You can’t-“

Dis’ worried correction was cut off at a sharp gesture from her son.

“I know that the taint was influencing Fíli, Mother! I know that! But what he did… Can you truly tell me that some part of him was not aware of how wrong it was? I thought I truly knew my brother, what he was capable of. Even when we fought, I knew what to say, how to handle things once we’d both calmed down, but this…”

Thorin sighed, but he could not fault Kíli for his fears. Everything in the delusion had been centered on the goal of keeping Kíli safe, no matter how misguided or brutal, but that very reasoning had made the madness all the more chilling, for it was impossible to now separate the actions caused by the taint from those that were deep inside ‘Fíli’. What lengths would Fíli go to in the future if his brother were threatened? And to what lengths would Kíli go to prevent just such a dilemma from occurring? Those were not questions that could be easily answered, nor were they ones that would sit quietly in the mind now that they had occurred to him.

The princess blinked back tears, eyes seeking out her brother in a silent plea to fix this as he’d somehow handled everything else that had been thrown at them lately, but Thorin could only shake his head. How could he advise Kíli to deal with the darkness within one he’d trusted implicitly when the older dwarf didn’t know what to do himself? He couldn’t simply excuse Fíli’s actions, yet he also could not condemn the other for them; not when he was guilty of as much or worse due to the gold sickness. A sudden thought had Thorin looking sharply at his nephew before attempting a casual tone.

“We will deal with it, Kíli, somehow. Just remember that he is still Fíli, still the older brother that you have always known. Tell me, how are you otherwise? What do you remember now of our journey to Erebor?”

The prince’s brow knit in confusion at the sudden shift in topic, but for once, the younger dwarf did not question it, simply shrugging.

“I remember almost everything up until reaching Laketown, according to Fíli. After that… Sometimes I have glimpses of what I think might be memories in my dreams, but they are so fragmented, so short, that I usually don’t bother to ask about them. Why? Did something happen?”

Thorin felt as if Dwalin had slammed his war hammer into his gut, finally pinning down what had bothered him about Kili’s reactions to his brother’s madness, but he stayed silent, shaking his head and hoping that he did not give himself away. When Kíli believed that someone was attempting to shield him, even if it were for the young prince’s own good, he could be worse than a warg upon the scent of blood. He would worry, wonder, build wild speculations in his head, and work himself up into such a state that they would have to tell him for his own good, something that Thorin definitely did not want occurring now.

“I simply wondered, Kíli, that is all.”

Movement by the fire drew the king’s attention past his distressed sister to see Bofur, arm in a sling, glance over at them and then resolutely turn back to instructing his son in chopping wild onions. Seated on the log by Thorin’s head, Dwalin heaved a disgruntled sigh.

“He’s alright; the slice is shallow and already healing. Had you not shoved Fíli, though…? Thorin, I’m certain he aimed to kill him.”

The king could not argue with that assertion as he had come to the same conclusion in that split second before it happened, though he wished the warrior had not stated it where Kíli could hear. The younger dwarf had blanched, and was now fidgeting restlessly. They all knew what was not said; that Bofur would be justified under the laws of their people in demanding retribution once they had returned to Erebor, which would mean the incident would become public knowledge throughout the mountain…

If the others rejected Fíli now, then their quest was done, there was no longer any point in racing the tides of time to the mountain, for the princes would never sit upon the throne of Erebor. Nori could place his people to stop the cult’s take-over, but whatever fate they feared with the princes’ arrival, they would be safe from, something that he was certain would spell disaster for their people. Thorin would also have to look elsewhere for an heir, the line of Durin finally spent as Kíli would never consent to rule without his brother, and young Therin had not proven himself in battle.

“What of the mercenaries following us? Fíli mentioned that you had encountered them.”

Glóin gave a snort of disdain while Dwalin rolled his eyes, instantly reassuring their royal cousin that it could not have been a very serious encounter.

“That bunch! Only the Uruk-hai were any challenge, and we quickly taught them why their kin fear dwarves!” Glóin’s grin was fierce, brown eyes sparkling in memory. “Most of the others turned tail and ran when the blood started flowing. I wish them luck finding their way out of Mirkwood!”

“Enough of that for now.” Dis ordered sternly, rummaging in her pack, which she had set down next to the log. “Glóin, would you and Dwalin aid my brother with his tunic? Radagast left something that should help your shoulders, and I want to take a look at your wrists, too.”

Thorin was being pulled out of his tunic before he could even reply, none among the dwarves so foolhardy as to ignore their princess when she took that tone!

*************************************

It was late in the afternoon when the wizard reappeared, escorting Fíli into the clearing, a friendly hand upon the prince’s shoulder giving him a shove toward them before walking over to draw Legolas off to the side. The blonde looked pale, pain lines showing around his eyes, but calm, the glint of tainted madness gone. He stopped short of the party, head dropping to lock on the ground, hands flexing in a nervous habit Thorin had not seen from him in many years. Next to him, Kíli unconsciously mirrored his brother’s stance, sun and shadow, two halves that might never again be whole. Slowly, as if approaching an unpredictable wild creature, the other dwarves moved to stand several feet away, silent, and waiting.

Finally, after several minutes, Dis made a noise of disgust deep in her throat, moving to push past her brother to go to her eldest’s side, but he was quick to stop her with a firm hand on the arm. If Fíli saw, he made no sign of it as the tension in the clearing grew as thick as the steamy late summer air. All held their breath as Bofur at last stepped forward, jaw clenched and dark eyes shadowed under his hat, to confront the one who had drawn his blood in such a brutal, cowardly fashion. There was a low keen of distress from Kíli, but no one moved, all acknowledging the impromptu dwarven court. Bofur’s footfalls sounded as loud as beats upon a drum, each one drawing closer to doom or deliverance.

“Did you, Fíli, son of Dis, grandson of Thrain, mean to raise your hand against me?”

Only the wind through the leaves of the trees made any sound, even the birds and animals somehow sensing the import of those toneless words, spoken as if asking no more than the direction of the nearest inn from a stranger in the village street. Tension made Fíli’s body quiver like the just released string of his brother’s bow, and for a long moment, it looked as if he would make no answer, an instant admission of full guilt. Finally, the blonde met Bofur’s gaze, blue eyes unshielded, shouting the guilt, distress, and sorrow the other felt for all to see.

“No.” His voice broke on the word, then steadied, hands coming unclenched and body relaxing. “No, I swear to you, Bofur, that I would not do so. I saw only a traitor who held my brother captive and sought his death.”

At those words, the toymaker took one more step, placing him right before the prince, and clasped Fíli’s shoulder with his good hand.

“Then I neither need nor accept any further apology or recompense from you, my prince.”

With those gently spoken words, the air seemed to lighten around them, sounds returning to the forest as Bofur gathered the prince to him, golden head on the older dwarf’s shoulder as the toymaker whispered in his ear. Whatever the other said, it provoked a weak laugh from Fíli before he nodded and straightened, blue eyes finally going over Bofur’s shoulder to meet with those of his family.

Dis moved first, twisting her arm from Thorin’s hold to meet her son with arms open wide, enveloping him in a hug so fierce her brother feared she might crack her son’s ribs. No matter how forgiving Dis’ greeting, however, there was still a slump to the older prince’s shoulders, a dejected air that prevented him from fully returning his mother’s hug. Gently, he pushed her back, placing a kiss upon her forehead before resolutely stepping forward to stand before his uncle and younger brother.

Blue eyes met brown, and Fíli reached for his sibling only to have Kíli flinch from the hand, fear flickering momentarily across his face before it was quickly masked. Not, however, before Fíli had read his brother as easily as he always had and taken an involuntary step backward as if struck. Anger clouded his features, and then the blonde spun around, bolting from the campsite as quickly as if a warg pack snapped at his heels. Thorin swore, not caring who heard, and jerked his head at Dwalin and Gimli, standing together a few feet away. The two dwarves needed nothing more, hefting weapons as they disappeared into the woods after the prince to guard him, whether he wished it or not. Kíli, meanwhile, had gone white, face twisted in appalled distress at his own actions as he stared after his brother.

“I didn’t- I don’t-“

Thorin put a hand on Kili’s shoulder, making the young dwarf glance at him.

“I know you didn’t, Kíli. Stay here, I will speak with him.”

The prince only nodded woodenly, Thorin catching his sister’s nod of understanding over her younger son’s shoulder. Divide and conquer it would be, then. The king headed into the brush to find his older nephew, stifling a moan with each swing of his arms required to push aside obstacles in his path. He had not taken the time for his sister to apply another layer of the ointment that Radagast had left to sooth his abused muscles, an oversight he was paying for now. Fortunately, Fíli had exercised enough common sense even in his distress not to go too far, Dwalin and Gimli already stationed discretely nearby.

The blonde was leaning against one of the great trees, shoulders slumped, staring listlessly out into the forest. Thorin hesitated, then resolutely put a hand to the prince’s shoulder, tightening his hold when the other immediately tried to shrug him off. This had been a brutal reminder to Thorin that no matter how mature and self-assured Fíli often acted, he was truly still young and untried, attempting to assume a role that he did not fully understand.

“You scared him, Fíli. This is the first time that he has ever seen such darkness in another.”

His nephew scoffed at that, fist hitting the bark of the tree he leaned against, anger making his blue eyes dark.

“What do you mean? Kíli is better at understanding what moves the cult is likely to make than any of us. Everything that happened, I did because I was trying to protect him and now he flinches from me as if I were some kind of monster!”

“He did not grow up following the cult’s every move, imitating and trusting them as he did you. He will not find it easy to be around you for now, but you cannot give in to anger at him for it. To understand that someone you love is capable of such things is a bitter lesson for anyone, even if he knows that much of it was out of your control. ”

That, at least, finally made Fíli turn to rest his back against the trunk, fully facing Thorin.

“But, the gold sickness…” The prince trailed off, coming to the same realization that his uncle had earlier in the day. “He doesn’t remember it, does he? And no one’s told him.”

“No.” The king agreed, placidly accepting the accusation underlying the other’s words. “I do not intentionally keep it from him, Fíli, but I also do not think now is the time to address it, do you?”

The look he received in return was scathing, needing no elaboration about how obvious the answer was.

“The best advice that I can give you is to be open with him, Fíli. Tell Kíli what it was like for you, what you saw. Give him a way to understand what right now is inexplicable. Show him that you are still the brother he grew up shadowing.”

Fíli nodded slightly, and then closed his eyes, head resting back against the rough bark.

“And what of the others? I’m not even certain who it was I actually tried to kill.”

Thorin blinked in surprise, mind racing as he tried to follow his nephew’s thoughts.

“What do you mean? Bofur-“

A wave of one hand stopped the king mid-sentence.

“Bofur is who I hit because you knocked into me and threw off my aim, thank Mahal. My intended target was whoever was next to him, and I don’t even know who it really was to apologize. All I saw was one of Saruman’s orcs.” 

Thorin sucked in a heavy breath, eyes widening briefly as the enormity of what had almost happened truly hit home, how close his family had come to being completely destroyed in an instant. Swallowing thickly, he made a show of trying to recall in order to cover his distress. Then, once he was certain that he could maintain his composure, he looked Fíli full in the face and lied.

“I do not remember who it was, nor is it important at this point.”

Not that his judgment would prevent Fíli from asking the others anyway. Thorin silently vowed to speak with everyone discreetly before this went any further. The last thing that Fíli needed now was to discover that it was his own mother he’d almost killed! Unfortunately, if anything, the prince was now more troubled, and Thorin scrambled to think what else he might say to the lad.

“We have never spoken of the actions that I took while lost to the gold sickness. You are not alone in what you feel now- the guilt, shame, worry.”

It was perhaps not the most elegantly phrased opening, but Fíli seemed to catch the intent anyway, expression now thoughtful as his body language finally lost some of that guarded rigidity. Thorin allowed the other time to ponder that revelation, knowing of old that when Fíli was ready, he would ask for what he truly needed. Sure enough, as the forest around them began to darken with the coming dusk, the prince spoke, tired and hoarse with the weight of the emotions he’d been under.

“How do you know you can trust yourself? That it was the taint, and not me that kicked you so casually? When Kíli flinched from me, I feared that I might actually-“

The blonde cut off, flushing and dropping his head to stare at one toe of a boot as he dug it into the soil.

“You feared that you would give into the anger and strike him.”

“Yes.”

The answer was mumbled to the turf, only the somewhat tangled blonde hair visible to his uncle. Thorin throttled down his own anger and frustrations, bringing one hand up to cradle the side of Fíli’s face, thumb sweeping away the lone tear while the fingers curled around the back of the neck, forcing the other to move his head up.

“Look at me, Fíli.”

His nephew reluctantly complied, the unhappiness and self-doubt revealed there tearing at Thorin’s very soul. He would have given anything for this sensitive, innocent child to never be forced to learn this lesson!

“Do not cut yourself off from all emotion. You must take the chance to feel or you will never re-learn to trust yourself again, and that will cripple you.” Thorin paused, then resumed as a wise voice from the past spoke gently to another troubled, angry dwarf in his memory. “To have walked in darkness, young prince, is to have walked truly alone; it acknowledges no friendship, understands no love but for one’s self. When you realize that you are acting for self alone, that is when you must stop and question yourself. And if you do not trust yourself, reach out to those around you, your family and friends. You are not alone in this, and so you cannot truly be lost, can you?”

There was the faintest trace of a smile on Fíli’s lips.

“That sounds like something Balin would have said.”

“That is because it was, after I had made one of the biggest mistakes of my life. Unfortunately, it was when I forgot that advice that I made one even worse. Fíli, when I was lost to the gold sickness, I cared nothing for our people, or the lofty goals that made me set out on the quest in the first place. Friends were noise in my ears, meaningless except as they could

be used for my own ends, even Dwalin and Balin. All I could think of was that treasure and the Arkenstone. I was willing to kill Bilbo by my own hand and let the others die, even you and Kíli… The very fact that you feared the reaction you might have to your brother shows that you are no longer lost, or you would not have hesitated to do as you willed. Do you not think that I have doubted the wisdom of trusting myself to lead those who would return to Khazad-dûm with me? I have already failed once, by what right do I claim the kingship of the greatest of our ancient kingdoms?”

Thorin had not meant to turn this into a question of his own doubts, but they slipped out anyway. Fíli’s blue eyes locked with his, and his uncle could only breathe another thank you to Mahal for the trust and love he saw there once more.

“You are Durin VII. You will not fail again, Uncle. Not with all of us behind you.”

“Then trust my word that you may give into your anger without once more becoming the monster, Fíli, because if you can make it through even a week without becoming upset at something that brother of yours says or does, you belong with Mahal, not us mere mortals!”

That provoked a genuine, though weak, laugh, at the fond exasperation in Thorin’s tone.

“Did you leave Mother to handle Kíli?”

“Yes.” The dwarf king heaved a heartfelt sigh of frustration. “Somehow Dis is always able to get through that stubbornness of his while I only end up cursing.”

The chuckle was stronger this time, braid beads clacking gently against one another as the golden head shook in amusement.

“You and Kíli are too much alike, Uncle. Mother and I have both known that for years.”

Thorin raised an eyebrow at his smirking nephew, allowing his answer to come out in a mock growl.

“Are you implying that your mother, my sister, handles your brother so much easier than I because she has had decades of practice on her elder brother?”

Finally, the sparkle came back into Fíli’s eyes as he danced a few steps away, out of range of his uncle.

“You said it, Uncle, not me!”

“Ach!” Thorin swept a hand at the impudent blonde, letting it come to rest on his sword hilt. “Move, young dwarf, before I find a use for the flat of my blade!”


	37. Treading the Forest Paths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the dwarves encounter an old foe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

37\. Treading the Forest Paths

As the dwarves and their elven guide prepared to resume their interrupted journey the next morning, Thorin found himself being pulled aside by the Brown Wizard, who had been leaning upon his staff watching their activities with a scowl. The old man pressed a small pouch into the king’s hand, watching as Thorin opened it to withdraw what looked to be small, hard capsules made from leaves, almost like a cocoon.

“What are these?”

“Medicine, of course.” Radagast’s nose wrinkled as he looked down on the shorter being as if insulted. “For young Fíli. Break one open in hot water in the morning and in the evening until they are gone, and if they make him sick, do not let anyone touch the vomit. Cover it in dried leaves and set it afire. Keep everyone out of the smoke, too, unless you want another infected with that foul stuff.”

“No, once was enough. I can only offer my thanks for your aid.”

“Watch out for your younger one, as well. You are not out of danger yet, Thorin Oakenshield. And do not place any trust in Thranduil; elves are not as immune to the lure of power as they believe themselves to be, a lesson that one has yet to learn.”

That was one warning that Thorin had no need of, though he did not say as much to the Istari. Instead, he gave the old one a solemn nod of leave, taking his position within the party leaving the clearing. At the very least, their unplanned detour to the western section of the forest had brought them past the worst of the tainted areas, allowing Kíli to once again travel mounted. The young prince, naturally, had objected that he was finally able to walk, but had been forcibly overruled by his uncle as they wanted to cover ground at speed. One group of their enemy had been destroyed or run-off, true, but there was no telling where more might lurk, and time sped by.

It was already the end of August by the calendar of Men, Durin’s Day now only a little over a month away, and they were not quite halfway through Mirkwood. Their current plan was to go straight north through the heart of the forest until they crossed the old road and the mountains, where they would pick up the Black River. They could follow that north until it met with the Forest River, which would take them east toward Erebor. When they reached the edge of the forest, it became a sprint to the mountain under cover of darkness, and a hard climb up the sheltered slopes to the hidden door. Legolas and Thorin had estimated the journey at three weeks, giving them very little excess time for further encounters with the denizens of the forest or their foes. While Mirkwood had supposedly been swept by the armies of Thranduil and Celeborn, there had been time for dark creatures to seek shelter in hidden places that the elves had not found, or to creep back across the lands from where their armies had been defeated at Erebor, Dale, or even Gondor.

The next week, however, provided the company with a welcome monotony of travel and camp, with no sign of further danger beyond the howling of wolves far off in the night. Legolas and Gimli had even come across a deer that had fallen and snapped its neck, providing the dwarves with a hearty meal of venison, which Dwalin had been very vocal about having been lacking. The only sign that all was not well was the lack of tales as they walked or laughter around the campfire at night, though this last night, even that had begun to change.

Bofur, ever sensitive to the morale of the group, had dredged up several old stories of the misadventures he and his brother had gotten into as young lads. Glóin, not to be outdone, had matched his old comrade with the mischief possible to dwarflings growing up in the mighty halls of Erebor, a subject that naturally included one or two involving two princes and a princess that had them all roaring. It was only then that Thorin noticed Fíli had joined them, seated between Bofur and his brother.

Fíli had been understandably reserved since the incident with the taint, keeping apart from the others at night, with only Bofur or his brother welcome to intrude upon his solitude. Thorin had viewed this with concern until the toymaker took him aside and told his king that the prince was slowly working his way through the memories of what had happened. Of course, several of these caused a good deal of discomfort to Fíli, especially as relating to his uncle, so Bofur asked that the king allow his nephew to come to him in his own time and space. Dis, also watching the behavior anxiously, had speculated that perhaps her eldest did not feel himself sufficiently punished for what had occurred, a view that Thorin simply growled at, as he had been known to do the same thing. It was the curse of the responsibility that both he and his heir had been raised with that they were unable to shrug off events as Dis and Kíli often did.

The break in Fíli’s self-imposed shell finally occurred the next night as normal dwarven behavior reasserted itself around the campfire, which meant teasing. Most of the party was seated in a circle relaxing after eating the last of the venison stew, hands occupied with pipes or whittling as was their habit. Fíli was once again absent, leaning against a tree just beyond the perimeter of the light. It was not a position that Thorin was comfortable with, but as Nast already stood guard nearby, he was keeping his peace. Just now, Glóin was spluttering at being needled by Dwalin about an incident from the years after the reclaiming of Erebor, something about a pile of dragon dung…

“Your problem is that you never let an incident die, Dwalin. It wasn’t even that funny!” Thorin had to smile at the characteristic bluster even as he noted that his white-bearded cousin was casting about for a diversion, lighting on the younger prince. “You know, Thorin, I have two daughters who just turned seventy-seven. The princes will need to marry, with no heirs to Erebor.”

Thorin had to stifle a chortle as Kíli displayed the innate instinct inherent in all males that alerted them when their bachelorhood was being threatened, dark head bolting up in alarm, eyes wide.

“I don’t think that we need to worry about that yet, right, Uncle?”

The last two words came out high pitched and a bit squeaky, rocking the camp with laughter as the prince flushed. Before the teasing could resume, Dis glared at the others while resting a hand on her flustered son’s shoulder.

“You need not decide immediately, Kíli, but it will have to be addressed.”

Thorin grit his teeth, glaring at his sister. He’d not intended to bring up this topic with his nephews until after he had them firmly on the throne of Erebor.

“What about Therin and Lis?”

The others stayed silent, watching the exchange somberly, as their king at last laid bare his thoughts on the matter.

“I will take Therin to be trained as my heir, and I understand from your mother that Lis accepted pledge last year.”

“Pledged? To whom?”

The question came quietly from the darkness as Fíli entered the firelight, dropping into the spot willingly vacated between his brother and Bofur, pipe in hand. Pledging was the dwarven equivalent of a betrothal, a very serious business for a race that normally married only once in their lives. Part of that very stability came from the tradition of a pledge year in which the two young dwarves would be mentored in married life by their older relatives before actually starting their life together.

“Me, cousin.” Gimli’s pride and pleasure in that was an almost physical glow, grin so wide it almost split his face. “I exchanged ravens with her while we were still in Minas Tirith, and she has agreed to return south with me in the spring.”

Thorin eyed the young red-bearded warrior, having been weighing Glóin’s son as they travelled. Yes, he would be a worthy mate for his niece, and the degree of cousinship was no barrier, as it was their respective great-grandfathers who had been brothers, no closer. Legolas, usually silent, brought the king’s attention back to the fire as the elf leaned forward with his brow furrowed in mock hurt to regard his dwarven friend.

“You did not tell us you had a lady back home, Gimli!”

“Of course not!” The warrior scoffed, eyeing the elf warily, “I saw the merciless teasing you lot subjected Aragorn and poor Sam to over Arwen and Rose Cotton! Did you think me foolish enough to volunteer as your next target? I assure you, growing up with these two,” A negligent hand waved at Fíli and Kíli, who wore identical smirks, “I had ample lessons in the virtues of discretion.”

“Hey!”

Both princes objected as one, faces morphing into injured innocence that not a one of their audience was buying, mirth erupting once again.

“What of you, Legolas? Do you have an elven lady that you fancy?”

Fíli verbally pounced upon their guide before one or more of the older dwarves could resume the previous discussion of marriages. Thorin had to stifle a laugh, noting that his older nephew really could use a few more lessons in discrete subject changes. To be fair, Thorin himself was dismal at such things, usually shutting the conversation down by the most direct of methods – glaring. As the faintest hint of pink was picked up on the elf’s pale face, Gimli roared, slapping his knee as he pointed at his friend.

“That’s a yes! Good job, cousin, you caught him! Come now, Legolas, tell!”

Seeing the prince shifting around in apparent discomfort at finding himself the center of attention, Thorin actually felt sorry for Legolas. For a moment, anyway.

“It is not so much one that I fancy now as I did when an elfling.” That protest went nowhere as the others continued to stare at him, waiting. Legolas grimaced, but gave in with good grace. “I was briefly infatuated with the captain of my father’s personal guard, the Lady Tauriel. As was nearly every other male of the Woodland Realm.”

“Briefly? What happened?”

Fíli questioned, giving his brother a subtle nudge, which earned a thunderous scowl from the brunette. Apparently elves were not the only males to be enchanted by the fiery guard captain, Thorin mused, more amused than angry at the revelation. It was not as if his nephew had any chance of acting upon the infatuation, and the days in Thranduil’s dungeon had doubtless done much to teach the younger prince of the treachery one could expect from the Mirkwood elves. Strange, that Thorin no longer associated Legolas with his father, even though the prince had been with the guard captain when the dwarves were captured. That had not been much of a feat, considering the thirteen of them were half unconscious and reeling from spider poison!

“The lass fought decently, for an elf.”

Only a pledge of undying love for an elf could have caught Thorin by more surprise than that statement from Dwalin, who was already glaring at his gaping comrades.

“What? She did!”

“Tauriel made a similar assessment of you, Master Dwalin.” Legolas’ statement probably prevented the situation from deteriorating into a yelling match between Dwalin and whoever was foolhardy enough to tease him about the statement, most likely Glóin or Bofur. “As for my infatuation, I was very young at the time, and it is difficult to maintain such a view after the object of your affection has rather handily defeated you several times in a row on the practice field. Especially when each bout lasted mere moments with many watching.”

“That does tend to cool the ardor. I recall my own first lesson-“

A howl broke the night, silencing Dis and instantly bringing hands to weapons as all peered uncertainly into the darkness around them. Unlike previous nights, that animal had sounded fairly close by, though distances were often deceptive in the forest.

“Father? Was that a warg?”

Kifir’s quivering whisper sounded more like a shout in the sudden stillness, the normal night noises having stopped as well.

“No, lad, just a wolf. ‘Tis unlikely to bother us with the campfire lit.”

“Then why are there eyes shining behind Gimli?”

That brought them all to their feet, Kíli and Legolas both pulling arrows as they scanned the indicated spot, but whatever the dwarfling had seen was evidently gone. Thorin sheathed his great blade after several minutes, a mute signal to the others to follow suit, and turned back, stirring up the fire.

“Keep a source of fire lit, but hidden, while on watch tonight, and sleep with your weapons handy.”

It was not a warning most needed as they began to set up bedrolls with wary glances at the surrounding darkness, no longer in the mood for stories or jokes. While not as intelligent as wargs, the wolves who called Mirkwood home had gained a reputation for ruthlessness over the years, sometimes attacking well-armed parties upon the road. Thorin knew this was partially because this section of the forest had been the site of an ongoing skirmish between the elves and the dark creatures of Dol Guldur, leaving plenty for scavengers such as the wolves to grow fat upon. When such easy pickings were not available, however, desperation would drive the creatures to dare much that ordinary wild wolves would not, having had little experience with hunting for their food.

None slept easily that night, but while their rest was frequently broken by howling in the darkness, no attack came. That did not mean that the party had gone unmarked by the scavengers. All who stood watch reported eyes shining around them whenever they unshielded the lantern, and Kili’s keen sight instantly spotted tracks left behind in the morning light.

“Can the taint infect animals like it did me?”

Fíli’s question was hesitant, almost fearful, despite his brother’s hand upon his shoulder. There were several sharp looks at the blonde from members of the party, but none challenged the prince. It was the first time that Fíli had openly acknowledged what had happened so casually. Legolas stood from where he’d been examining Kili’s find.

“It can, but it makes them overly aggressive. They would see enemies where there are none, even as you did.”

The older prince grimaced, giving his uncle a rueful glance.

“That’s true enough. I remember being angry at the slightest things, striking out without caring who I hurt. At different times, I saw what I thought were orcs, Saruman, even…an elf.”

Thorin crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at his elder sister-son.

“As I recall, Fíli, you did not see me as just an elf, but Thranduil himself. It was not a mistake that I believed any would make, let alone my own nephew.”

Fíli immediately started to become flushed with embarrassment, even the tips of his ears tinged pink before his uncle relented, allowing his lips to twitch, betraying the barest hint of his amusement. Dwalin was the first to pick up on it, letting out a bellowing guffaw as he slapped the unfortunate prince on the back good naturedly. Thorin waited for the laughter to die down before turning back to their guide.

“And if the wolves were affected as Fíli was?”

“They would not have hesitated to attack had such been the case, even with the fire blazing. I believe that something else stirs them.”

“Keep your guard up today.” Thorin allowed his gaze to rove over the group until lighting upon his nephews. “You two stay in the center, with weapons to hand. Go nowhere without Dwalin or me as guard.”

Neither prince seemed thrilled with the idea, but they knew better than to argue, taking their appointed places silently. It wasn’t long into their march before the first crack of foot stepping on bone had them all mincing along, watching their step while overhead, the remnants of wispy white threads hung from the trees to cling to face and hair as they passed. The first pod of spider silk suspended above stopped them, Legolas making short work of scaling the tree to slice open the

offending item. His face was grim when he returned to the ground, those who had been on the quest for Erebor gripping weapons tightly at the macabre reminder of their own near lethal encounter with another of the forest’s dark invaders.

“Long dead.”

The elf had not yet sheathed his knife, turning to offer the hilt to Bofur, who just frowned at him.

“Even if the spiders have all been killed or run off, we will need to cut through remaining webs. Elven blades are best for such a task, but Kíli and I should remain on guard with our bows.”

“Aye, that makes good sense.” Bofur took the blade, running a thumb lightly over it to check the sharpness as he glanced around. “Gimli, it looks as if it will be up to us, lad.”

The red haired warrior had already drawn the twin to the weapon the toymaker now held, eyeing the surrounding forest warily.

“No.” Thorin grasped Orcrist’s hilt, drawing the great blade, then retrieved a dagger from his belt, holding it out toward Dwalin. “It will be quicker with four cutting if needed. Nast, you and Glóin have rear guard. Dis, stay near Kifir and your sons.”

Dwalin, meanwhile, had taken the offered blade from his friend only to freeze, eyes widening in shock as he drew it.

“’Tis mithril!”

Gimli whispered in awe as the others crowded around.

“It’s more than that, cousin,” Kíli breathed, one finger lightly tracing the engraving. “It’s Durin’s blade. Legend says that it was lost in the fall of Moria!”

“Legends are often wrong, Kíli.” Thorin’s stern admonishment brought their attention to the dagger’s owner. “Come, we should not linger here.”

Perhaps a quarter mile further along, they encountered the first of the webs actually stretching across their path, the four designated dwarves quickly going to work on the heavy sticky strands. It was slow, but the extremely sharp elven blades proved equal to the task, parting the webbing much more easily than when the dwarves had tried on their original journey through the woods. It was just as well, too, as in several places there were multiple layers of old webs left strung across the path they wished to take. More than once, they encountered the decaying husks of the former owners, as well, the elven warriors’ work plain to see in severed limbs and headless bodies. The first several times they had come across such things, all had been wary, as if expecting the massive arachnid to suddenly return to life, but by the second hour, they were not as concerned. Perhaps that was why none proceeded with caution when they spotted yet another carcass, legs folded underneath, sitting directly in their path. Thorin was almost directly in front of it when the creature’s body shuddered, head turning ever so slightly toward him.

“I feel your tread upon the earth, come to put an old blind creature out of her misery.”

The words were paper thin and barely audible, slurring in the effort it took for her mandibles to produce common speech. Behind him, Thorin could hear the scrambling of bodies as the others positioned themselves for attack, but he dared not look away from the old spider in front of him. A tap upon his shoulder signaled that he was clear to take a step back, out of the reach of those pincer-like jaws.

“Were we to do so, your kin would not stop seeking vengeance.”

He answered her, unwilling to fall once more to the cunning of the beasts. The laugh he received in return sent a shiver up his spine.

“I have no kin left, heavy walker. The filthy elves have seen to that! I have not felt the vibrations of one of your kind within the forest since I was newly hatched. Tell me, did you bring another of the cursed ones with you as well?”

“I do not know of what you speak.”

Behind him, the king could hear the others carefully skirting the beast and knew he must keep its attention. They could easily kill the thing, but if others of its nesting remained, they would feel its death and respond with madness. Far better to avoid a fight and let time finish the work.

“Long ago now, it came unseen, taunting with song and stealing our meals. We tried to stop it, but so many of my sisters died under its sharp sting instead. We hunted the heavy walkers once more, but when we had cornered our morsels yet again, the elves came and stole them.”

“I think its referring to Bilbo. I remember hearing him singing as he cut us loose last time.”

Fíli’s whisper confirmed the suspicion growing in Thorin’s own mind as a second tap on the shoulder let him know the others were clear. It was only when he was a good distance past the thing that the older dwarf turned, letting out his breath in a rush of relief he saw echoed by Glóin.

“Foul creatures.” His white-bearded cousin shuddered, “Let’s not wait for its kin.”

“There should be no more, Master Dwarf. Lord Celeborn vowed that the southern forest was well-scoured.”

Legolas had not put away the arrow he held at ready on his bow, however.

“Given what else we’ve encountered in this forest, Master Elf, you’ll forgive my lack of trust in that.”

It was telling that their guide did not challenge or take offense at that statement.


	38. The Secret of Erebor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the goal of the cult is discovered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

38\. The Secret of Erebor

They reached the old road in the early morning three days later, stopping just short of the path to allow Legolas to scout ahead. A harsh cawing and the beating of wings that erupted from the woods had all the dwarves ducking as a dark shape swooped overhead to land upon a nearby branch.

“Beware, Durin-King, your enemies are waiting.”

Thorin cursed softly at the message, eyes meeting those of his sister and his nephews as all heard the warning given by the raven. A whisper of sound alerted them to Legolas’ return as the elf melted from the foliage, glancing with curiosity at the bird, voice barely audible.

“There are two dwarves upon the road.”

“So we hear.” Thorin murmured, nodding at the bird, which bobbed its head back at him. “Can you get me close enough to see them?”

The elf nodded, the king following without hesitation, though he winced at how loud his footfalls were compared to the other. Several more raucous caws sounded as the raven swooped overhead and out through the branches to exclamations from in front of them. Thorin smiled, grateful once more for the allies he had on his side as he lowered himself to the turf, carefully peering through the bush.

“-said they are still in this cursed forest somewhere. We have men spread out along the road, someone should spot them.”

The speaker, when Thorin was able to see him, made him curse softly. In one rush of hatred, the path of the cult became clear, the traitor unmasked, and the king was grateful that his cousin Dain was dead. Had he known the depth of the conspiracy against him, the Lord of the Iron Hills would never have forgiven himself, for the dwarf who had taken his wife’s life and stolen any chance of heirs had been welcomed more than once into his very home.

“How do we know that we aren’t chasing some legend? No one alive has ever seen signs of a cache within Erebor!”

“It is your own throat you slit with such words, Erfidi. Our Lord tolerates no questions.”

“And who is planning on telling him? I’ll kill-“

Thorin didn’t bother to wait, using the loud argument to cover his movements back through the brush to the others, waving them further away before daring to speak.

“Both are definitely with the cult. They spoke of an ancient cache hidden somewhere within Erebor.”

Dwalin’s fists tightened on the head of his war hammer while Glóin began cursing softly in at least two languages. Dis just looked as if she were about to be sick, sinking down to sit upon a nearby fallen tree limb with her elder son in close attendance. Kíli, however, was rooted to the spot where he stood, face whitening alarmingly. The younger prince seemed to give out a strangled gasp, making his brother turn to him only to grasp the taller dwarf’s arm as Kili’s body went limp, eyes unfocused and staring into nothing.

“Thorin!”

The king was several steps away, strides hurried, but Glóin was there before him, a hand hooking under Kili’s other arm to aid the blonde in lowering his sibling to the ground. Thorin grabbed his pack, shoving it at his cousin to use as a backrest for the stricken prince as he knelt in the dirt by Fíli.

“What happened?”

Cool skin met his hands, and a pulse beat reassuringly against fingers pressed to Kili’s neck, though it was faster than Thorin liked. Fíli shook his head, brow knitting in worry.

“I don’t know. He’s barely slept the last two nights, so he’s seemed only half awake all morning, and then while you were speaking, he just fell against me.”

Thorin gave his elder nephew’s shoulder a rough, reassuring squeeze before standing and catching the eye of their guide.

“Legolas, will you keep watch upon those on the road? See if you can find us a crossing point.”

The elf accepted the assignment with a nod, the dwarf not bothering to watch the other leave as he returned his attention to his kin. Fíli had wet some spare cloth and was carefully wiping the sweat from his brother’s face, skin almost as pale as Kili’s currently was. Thorin sighed as he dropped back to squat in front of them, wishing that there were any way he could take some of this constant worry and strain from the elder. This past week and a half had been so much better for the younger brother, yet whenever there seemed to be a step forward, some new part of the tunnel waited to collapse upon their unwitting heads.

Worse, there was absolutely nothing that their uncle could do to aid them, a situation that only a parent would understand the true agony of. Thorin would willingly die again, fight the most brutal opponent, or wander in exile forever could he but spare them one moment of pain. Perhaps not surprisingly, it was Bofur and Glóin who knelt nearby, the toymaker pressing a water skin into his king’s hands, all the agony of Thorin’s soul reflected in normally cheerfully dancing eyes.

“Here. See if the lad will take any of this.”

Simply grateful for any small comfort he could offer, Thorin gave the other a nod of thanks before turning to his dark-haired nephew and bringing the skin to his lips. The unnerving blankness did not leave Kili’s face, but his lips opened as the water touched them and he swallowed the bare trickle Thorin carefully tilted in. Another mouthful, though, had the brunette coughing weakly until the liquid trailed down his chin. Thorin settled back on his heels, the air around him abruptly feeling thick and stifling as no breeze stirred it. A soft noise from above made the dwarf glance up to find the raven perched on a branch, head cocked as it watched the young prince intently.

“What news, mighty raven?”

Thorin asked the bird gravely, noting from the size of the creature that it must be of the royal line from the mountain. They had long been allies to the kings under the mountain, willingly carrying messages in return for aid when weather or men threatened their families. It was an arrangement that had served both sides well, until Smaug came. The raven considered him for a long moment in turn before deciding to answer.

“Enemies surround you, Durin-King. The traitors in the Iron Hills shed not only dwarven blood, but all who ally with you.” The black feathers ruffled up in agitation as it hopped down onto the branch nearest Fíli. “Wear your metal hide as you walk, Golden-Prince.”

The bird bobbed its head several times, beak clacking once, and Thorin grimaced, recognizing the age-old signal that the raven had a confidential message for his ears alone. They would not have the luxury of allowing him to go apart from the others until they had crossed the old road, nor was he certain such precautions were necessary with those of the company.

“Thorin!”

A hand abruptly clutched his arm, making the king startle, and then meet the brown eyes once more focused and aware. Before he could address the prince, he was already attempting to stand using the leverage of his uncle’s arm.

“Kíli!” Fíli quickly restrained his brother. “Easy! Come on, deep breathes…”

The younger prince’s chest was heaving as he attempted to suck in air, body quivering with adrenaline as his hand tightened and loosened convulsively on Thorin’s arm. Reaching around Fíli, the king brought one hand to rest on the back of Kili’s neck, kneading at the tense muscles. His other nephew used the opportunity to tilt the water skin to his brother’s lips once more as his uncle urged the dwarf to drink.

“Small sips, Kíli, that’s it. Calm yourself, we will wait.”

The next few minutes passed in a silence broken only by the howling of wolves somewhere close by, causing the other dwarves to tense, scanning the surroundings as they physically encircled their king and princes. Slowly, Kili’s face regained some of its normal coloring, breathing slowing as the fight or flight response eased, adrenaline subsiding. Finally, he met his uncle’s blue gaze, a haunted knowledge reflected there.

“I know what the Death Warriors seek in the mountain. Long ago, a cache of powerful dark artifacts gifted to them by Sauron was hidden there. The door is keyed only to open every one hundred years upon Durin’s Day.”

“Why did they wait until now to retrieve it? No one was in Erebor one hundred years ago!” Gimli pushed forward, glowering as the others simply stared at him, momentarily dumbfounded by the question. “What?!”

“I’m sure Smaug would’ve given permission if they’d asked politely.”

Glóin retorted sarcastically, rolling his eyes at his son in exasperation. The younger dwarf flushed, and then stalked back to his former position near where Legolas had disappeared into the forest, muttering darkly to himself. Kíli smiled faintly at the exchange as the merchant dwarf turned back to him.

“Do you know the location of the cache, Kíli?”

“Yes.” The prince’s face twisted ruefully, “Right now I could probably find my way through the mountain in complete darkness if I had to, but I don’t actually remember being there. Fíli.”

The blonde immediately responded to the unspoken request, standing and drawing the other up with him. Kíli wavered on his feet, only his brother and the walking stick Thorin thrust into his hand keeping him upright, then seemed to steady himself, glancing around.

“Where’s Legolas?”

“I sent him to-“

Shouts and snarls overrode the king’s words, the entire party gripping weapons tightly though it sounded some distance away. Such things were deceptive in the forest, and none wished to be caught unawares, even by mere wolves.

“Fíli, Kíli, armor! Now!”

Thorin hissed at his nephews, hoping to give the younger dwarves time to prepare should enemies appear from the woods. There was rustling and the clinking of metal behind him, but the king dared not turn to check upon their progress, waiting. A small rustle of the branches had him swinging the great blade only to pull up as his mind identified his would-be foe.

“Legolas!”

The growled name was part reprimand and part exasperation, though the elf did not seem to notice, giving a tight smirk.

“Wait a few moments longer and we should have a safe crossing point.”

“Just what did you do now?”

Gimli asked his friend suspiciously, looking the other up and down for signs of damage. Thorin didn’t bother to tell the dwarf warrior that the prince wouldn’t become slightly dented until they reached a safe camp and the king had the luxury of addressing the advisability of announcing one’s presence before startling a clearing full of battle ready warriors with the fool. Legolas shrugged casually, waving a hand negligently back toward where a ruckus could still be heard.

“I doused one of the lone sentries upon the road with blood from the deer we found days ago. The wolf pack that has been stalking us was most accommodating upon scenting it. I had originally saved it thinking to lead them away from us, but the dwarf provided an excellent opportunity. His cries of alarm have doubtless brought all within hearing range to his aid by now. Come, let us go.”

The explanation was given in a voice devoid of emotion, as if discussing the chances for rain that night, sending chills down Thorin’s spine, though he could not bring himself to feel regret for the cult member. For a species who claimed to live in harmony with nature, elves could be very bloody minded when they so chose! As Fíli and Kíli finished settling weapons back in place over their armor, Legolas waved the party forward toward the road. There, the elf paused, listening intently to the clash of weapons and snarling of wolves before jerking his head at the dwarves. All quickly followed their guide to cross the old path and dart into the concealing foliage upon the other side, wincing when they heard a loud, high pitched scream resounding from away to their right. The wolves would eat well tonight, it seemed.


	39. Traitor Unmasked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Legolas proves to have a different set of morals, Bofur is rendered speechless, and the dwarves encounter a storm in the mountains. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

39\. Traitor Unmasked

They had moved well beyond the road when Thorin signaled for a brief rest, glancing around to see if the raven had yet caught up with them. Not seeing sunlight shining off black feathers anywhere, the king sank down onto a rock, interest drawn by the soft discussion nearby between his nephews, Legolas, and Gimli.

“How could you just splatter blood on someone like that and walk away as if nothing happened?”

Fíli seemed fairly upset by the notion, probably due more to his own recent brush with darkness than any sympathy for other dwarf.

“Why would I not? All mortals are dying, Fíli, it is simply a matter of how quickly it happens.” The elf paused, light blue eyes assessing the other prince before offering further explanation. “To my people, you are flames flickering in the wind. You flare momentarily and then go out, so we seldom form attachments outside of our own. So, when we do, we are not loath to take whatever actions are necessary to protect them for what brief time we may share.”

“Is that why you were so adamant that Aragorn and I should leave Helm’s Deep?”

Gimli’s speech was a bass rumble, memories painting truths beyond mere words. Thorin had heard of the desperate last stand of Rohan’s King Theoden, trapped inside a fortress breached by the foul sorcery of a fallen wizard, so akin to his own final days within Erebor. The difference was that the man had not given into his darker side, holding firm where Thorin had fallen, bringing all down with him.

“It was, Gimli. It was also why I felt no compunction about using such methods against those who bar our path.”

“So when you look at us, all you see is death?”

Kili’s tone was apprehensive, the trepidation of a young one who has discovered what that concept truly is by staring into it, and fears it beyond any other earthly fate. Legolas gazed into the distance, brow knit in puzzlement as he tried to wrestle some inner truth into submission. At last, he looked to the princes once more, then beyond them to light upon Thorin for a moment.

“No, Kíli, not with the three of you. In you, there is a permanence I have sensed before in mortals only when in the presence of Mithrandir or one of his brethren, and yet, it is not the same. In the two of you, there is the depth of stone, the core of the earth, a cold, hard perpetuity that I cannot comprehend, though when I look with the eyes only, I see the warmth of living beings, and friends. It is also more predominant in Kíli then in you, Fíli.”

That idea did not sit well with the king at all, heightening when he noted that his younger nephew was once more absently tossing and twirling the Arkenstone from hand to hand, as if it were no more than a child’s toy. It was a habit that Thorin had seen growing day by day, and he was not certain what changes might portend. Kíli seemed to feel the weight of him watching and swiftly replaced the stone in its pouch at his hip, flushing.

“What of Thorin?”

Fíli inquired, so intent on the discussion that he did not note his uncle’s close presence. 

“With him, it is the weight of many lives, many voices, all around him, going back through more years than even my father may claim. I do not know why this is so, but I believe it to be the reason he was welcomed in Lothlorien when no other dwarf has been in many long years, save Gimli. I had expected the courtesy of the Lady Galadriel, but was taken by surprise by the aid willingly supplied by Lord Celeborn. He has much reason to hate dwarves, for Thingol was his grandsire’s brother.”

To hear such names so casually bandied about when they spoke of the First Age of Middle Earth was breath-taking, and humbling. It also shed a new understanding upon the coldness Celeborn had always displayed. Thorin had believed the Lord of Lothlorien to be Noldor, an elven kin the dwarves of Khazad-dûm had once called friend, but if he were kin to Thingol, then he was in truth Sindarin, and party to the origins of much of the ancient animosity between their races. After all, had not Thingol refused to pay the dwarves for their work, scorning them when they demanded their just due? Lost in his own thoughts, Thorin was not surprised to be drawn to another place and time, the green of the forest surrounding them lost to the grey stone of legendary halls.

_Durin the Deathless stared at the Firebeard in astonishment at the sheer audacity the other showed, coming here with such a request. Though he did not have much use for the elves, who seemed to believe themselves superior to all others who walked Middle Earth, he also had no cause to hate them._

_“You would have me lead my people against those who have only avenged the wrong wrought upon them by your kinsmen? You dare much.”_

_The messenger, who had not even the simple courtesy to give his name, straightened in outrage._

_“We ask that you aid us in avenging our people! We built his city, taught his inept smiths, supplied him with weapons with which to save his people from the twisted creatures of the North, and he repaid the Khazad by refusing a simple price, the least of things beside all we had given, and then sought to slay those who had come in peace to his own halls!”_

_Durin didn’t bother to rein in his temper, shooting to his feet with a roar that shook the very lanterns hanging in his great hall, the tainted truth being uttered by those he’d called kin twisting his stomach with disgust._

_“You asked what you knew would never be granted, and then used that refusal as justification to kill a king! Blatantly, in his own Hall!”_

_The messenger took several steps backward in fright, and the king resettled himself in the basalt throne, regarding them as one would children whose actions had vastly disappointed a long suffering parent. His next words were spoken with all the sorrow of what he knew was to come._

_“You suffer and die because of your own greed. I will not answer the call of my brothers for such a war, but offer my halls as sanctuary after you have mined the out the foul seam you follow, should any survive. You have doomed yourselves. Go.”_

With a rush of pure outraged shock, the king who was Durin Returned shot out of the past and back to the present, to the young (for he was such to Durin the Deathless) Prince of Mirkwood, a Sindarin elf whose people were mostly Silvan. An elf whose words had at last provoked Thorin to hear the truth of ages past and the wrongs that some among his race had committed. Deeply disturbed by the knowledge, he spoke to none as the flutter of wings drew the king a short distance away to hear the final message of the raven before returning to urge his party onward.

Over the next several hours of steady walking, the landscape began to lift sharply upward, the mixed trees of the lower forest giving way to the mighty firs hearty enough to withstand the harsh winds and rocky soil of the slopes. As they climbed higher, the ground became rock, radiating the sun’s rays, yet Thorin knew that as night came on, it would be a very chilly bed. They dared not light a fire tonight or stop before the last of the setting sun’s colors kissed the horizon, lest their foes realize that they had been evaded and seek them. Worse yet, these mountains were known to harbor goblins deep underneath, a situation that Thranduil had chosen to do nothing about beyond forbidding his kin to come through them at night. 

Thus, it was with a sinking heart and several muttered swear words in Khuzdul that Thorin regarded the towering thunderheads building above them, flashes of lightning already clearly visible among the clouds. The wind picked up first, tearing at hoods and beards, making even the dwarves with their low center of gravity bend their heads against it as they trudged on. Next came the rain, which arrived in sheets falling through the sky to instantly soak them and make the rocky footing treacherously slippery as bolts of lightning lit up their suddenly dark surroundings and the crash of thunder shook the earth. 

It was with apprehension that the members of Thorin’s original company looked about them, but there were no stone giants here to threaten them with flying boulders, only the more natural fury of a late summer storm. As the temperature dropped, teeth began to chatter, feet slipping more readily as the cold made them clumsy. Suddenly, the very air around them sizzled, making even wet hair stand up on end as a jagged, blinding bolt of lightning struck a tree only paces from the dwarves, wood bursting with a mighty boom that sent them to their knees. 

Behind him, he could barely make out Mithril’s squeal of terror or the panicked calls of his elder nephew as the blonde tried to grab the pony’s reins and missed. Twisting, the king had more luck, the leather biting into his hands as the pony tried to bolt past him, but was almost jerked from his feet by the strength of the frantic beast. Several other bodies collided with him as more hands grabbed hold, only the combined weight of several dwarves allowing them to stop the poor creature, Kíli still clinging to his back like a limpet.

“Kíli! You okay, little brother?”

The brunette nodded shakily as he pushed himself upright, raking aside hair plastered across his forehead and face, but Thorin can see a hint of something lurking in those dark eyes that tells him all is not well with his younger sister-son.

“Thorin!” Glóin’s roar was almost lost in the ringing in his ears, though his cousin stood only feet away. “We need to find shelter!”

“NO CAVES!”

Multiple voices returned as one before Thorin could respond, bringing a slightly amused twisting of his lips, though he had been about to give the exact same directive. The problem was where else they could find any relief from the wind and rain. Thorin winced as something bounced from his head, another hitting his shoulder, seeing the others reacting with instinctive ducks and upheld hands to ward off this new assault. Add hail to that list of grievances, he noted silently, thankful that this part of Middle Earth was not prone to tornadoes.

“Here!”

Gimli’s deep voice cut through another boom of thunder, the dwarf warrior appearing just around a turn in the path to wave at them. Satisfied that he had been seen and heeded, the red-bearded dwarf turned and led them a little further up the rock slope to where time and water had worn a natural hollow into the side of the cliff, providing just enough of an overhang to shelter them if they crowded together. It would not be the most comfortable accommodations they had shared, but the rain and hail no longer pelted them, none in the mood to be picky. Glóin grabbed a bundle wrapped in oil cloth from the back of the pony as Fíli sought to help his brother down, the older dwarf glancing meaningfully at his leader as he hefted his burden.

“A small one only and it must be put out when the rain no longer conceals us.”

Thorin conceded, answering his cousin’s unspoken question. They would need the warmth of a fire to dry out a bit, and a hot meal would not go amiss, as well. To the other side, he noted that Bofur and Nast were already rifling through their food stores, discussing what might make the best meal in low tones. Glóin and Gimli set about coaxing the slightly damp wood to burn, Thorin about to join them when angry yelling brought him back around to face his nephews.

“Leave me alone! I’m not a child, Fíli! And no, Mother, I do not have a fever, I know I am wet, and I don’t need to be told how to dry off!”

The king winced before turning to his family in time to see the stunned face of Dis and the angrily clouding one of Fíli as Kíli pushed past them toward the fire, gait stiff with fury. The younger prince couldn’t move very far away, of course, so he settled for dropping to the ground in front of the newly lit blaze, posture warning that he did not wish to be disturbed. Just beyond the overhang, another flash of lightning lit up their meager shelter, the boom of thunder following hard on its heels. All of them saw Kili’s entire body flinch, head ducking as hands curled around drawn up knees for a long moment before relaxing once more. Fíli bit his lip, worry in every little movement, and was about to follow his brother when Dwalin’s large hand landed on the prince’s shoulder, stopping him.

“Best let him be awhile, lad. He probably doesn’t even know why he’s angry right now. You too, Dis.”

“If he doesn’t dry off…”

Dis trailed off as they saw Bofur walk casually behind the prince with his hands full of dried stew ingredients and a blanket, which found its way around Kili’s shoulders without a word. Then, Kifir came scooting across the rock and curled up against the brunette’s side. At first it looked as though the older dwarf would shoo the lad off, but then his face softened, one arm coming out of the blanket to wrap around him, though his troubled gaze never left the dancing flames.

“All right, you two, what is going on?”

The princess rounded on her brother and his best friend, hands on her hips, voice low, but fierce. It was Dwalin, gaze fixed on the downpour just beyond, who answered her.

“’Tis the thunder, it’s too close to the sound of armies hitting one another.”

Dis’ eyes widened in realization, face paling as tears welled up, threatening to spill though she angrily dashed them away.

“Is that why you always went off alone when the storms hit in Ered Luin, Thorin? Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Thorin shook his head mutely, unable to put voice to his feelings as he ran one hand lightly up and down her arm. Instead of demanding further explanation from him, she leaned in, forehead gently bumping against his in mute apology for her lack of understanding. How often had he heard the mutters when he’d returned, his sister in a savage mood after being left with two endlessly energetic dwarflings stuck inside by a storm, and no uncle in sight to divert them? He’d never had the nerve to try explaining to her, nor had he truly desired to admit the raw emotions that welled up inside, especially during the first several decades after the disaster at Azanulbizar.   
Many of the veterans of that monstrous clash had similar problems, Thorin knew, ensuring that the tap room at the local inn was always full when the sky wept out its own rage. Gradually, the years had dulled the memories, the reactions fading, but it took time- to work through the feelings, to forget the hated clash of weapon upon weapon, to trust oneself to be around others who had not experienced such things, and share the stories with those who did. These were all luxuries that Kíli did not have, and so, the veterans among them had wordlessly stepped in, and Kifir’s innocence had led the way.

“Uncle, why aren’t I having the same reaction?”

Fíli’s troubled whisper brought the king out of his thoughts to smile at his elder nephew, moving away from his sister slightly to bring the other in reassuringly, foreheads again touching in that most intimate of familial gestures among dwarves.

“Because, Fíli, your trauma stemmed from the loss of your brother, not the battle itself. That is why you suffer panic when your brother leaves your sight, why you seek to do anything to protect him. It also does not help that Kíli doesn’t remember the battle, and so, cannot talk with those of us who shared the experience with him. It is not uncommon for anger to be the primary response to such feelings. Give him the space he needs, and keep in mind that he may not even recall snapping at you later.” 

The golden haired prince nodded thoughtfully, blue gaze roving over the dwarves carefully maneuvering around one another to settle upon the toymaker making short work of their evening meal.   
“What do you think of putting Bofur on the council? Stronghelm never filled the chair of Lord Tirin after he fell in battle with Dain.”

The king’s lips twitched at the thought of the shabby hat landing upon the ornate council table, dust flying off it to settle on the fine velvets of several of the Iron Hills lords.

“I was wondering when the two of you would realize that he was being wasted merely gathering intelligence. You may have some trouble persuading him to agree with the ennoblement, however.”

“Who said we planned to ask?”

Fíli startled as the brunette prince laid a hand on his shoulder in unspoken apology, dark eyes once more alive with mischief that soon had his older brother grinning in agreement with his plan. Thorin simply shook his head at Kili’s near instantaneous mood change, realizing that he was never going to be able to anticipate that one. Even as a baby, his nephew had the ability to go from happily playing to screaming his lungs out, and then to giggling before any but Fíli could even figure out what was wrong.

“That just might work, Kíli.”

“What might work, lads?”

The dwarf in question asked curiously as he threaded his way through their little gathering to retrieve several bottles from the food pack. The princes smirked, assuming their best nonchalant expressions, which had the desired effect of making poor Bofur exceedingly wary; hand curling around a spice jar so tightly that Thorin feared the earthenware might shatter.

“We were trying to decide what heraldic device to place on your council seat, Lord Bofur.”

At Fíli’s bland statement, the jar gave way with a sharp crack, scattering pepper into the air before the toymaker grinned, shaking an admonishing finger at the amused pair.

“Now, that’s not funny, you two, joking about such things and scaring an old dwarf to death like that!”

Thorin allowed a slight smile to tilt the corners of his mouth, dark blue eyes meeting the other’s fidgeting gaze with sincerity.

“Who said they joked, old friend?”

The words were a gentle reprimand, making the other’s hands start to shake, pieces of pottery hitting the rock floor and catching the attention of the rest of the party.

“You can’t truly be serious! The lords of Durin’s Folk would never accept a commoner, especially a Broadbeam! You’d have a mutiny within minutes of the announcement.”

“Again, who said we intended to ask?” Fíli repeated his brother’s earlier rejoinder, obviously warming to the idea if the slightly wicked twinkle was anything to go by. Both brothers straightened, chins tilted regally, with all the authority of their heritage behind them. “The throne of Erebor commands, it does not request, and if the others do not care for it, I wish them luck with Fain in the Iron Hills. Besides, between Kíli and I, Mother, Glóin, Vili, and Gimli, we have half the council. Kíli and I are too young, we must establish our basis for rule immediately or some will think us vulnerable, and appointing one of our own, especially someone outside the line of Durin, will do that.”

“Their reasoning is sound, Bofur, as is their choice.” Dwalin’s massive form clapped a hand on the toymaker’s back, sending the slighter dwarf staggering. “Nalin will support this, as will I, unless you lads planned on a new Warmaster.”

“Of course not, we just hadn’t had a chance to run the idea past you, that’s all.”

Kíli shrugged, adding something further, but Thorin had stopped paying heed at the reminder of his old friend’s title, hot rage bubbling up once more.

“The Iron Hills will be short a Warmaster soon enough, though.”

He hadn’t realized he had vocalized the ugly growl until silence abruptly descended, all eyes fixed upon the king.

“Thorin?” Dis was the first to dare say anything, studying her brother intently. “What do you mean?”

Thorin mentally berated himself even as he drew himself up, pitching his voice to reach all over the rain behind him.

“I did not tell you that I recognized both dwarves upon the road. It was Erfídi and Klár.”

Instantly the shelter erupted with curses so vile that they blistered the very air, Dis quickly covering young Kifir’s ears, though it might have been so that she could add a few choice mutterings of her own. Glóin’s face was turning as red as his son’s beard, while Gimli snarled, hands clenching as if around the haft of an axe. Only Fíli and Kíli stood bewildered, trying to make sense of the explosion of emotion until the younger prince finally turned to his uncle in puzzlement.

“Who…?”

“They are both cousins to Flár, the Warmaster of the Iron Hills.”

Thorin explained, Glóin jumping in before he could add more.

“Aye, and they’ve not done a thing except on his orders since they were dwarflings, pushing the other lads and lasses around as they saw fit. No wonder Dain could find no traitor; he had set their leader to catch his own! It was probably Flár behind the poisoning of young Thorin, too. He’d have just gained his position at that time, and paid his lord back for the honor by murdering his wife and almost killing his heir, as well!”

“But that still makes no sense!” Fíli shook his head so hard that his braid beads clacked against one another. “Why did the cult waste resources upon the Iron Hills if we were their targets all along?”

“Because they followed an imprecise prophecy, Fíli.” Thorin’s tone was still quiet, but as hard as the stones the Khazad mined, marking the king at his most dangerous. “That is the other message that the raven bore. Nori was able to catch a cult member that he judged most likely to betray the others by falsifying his death in a cave-in. He chose well.”

A shudder had run through Kili’s entire body at the mention of the trap Nori had used, not only catching Thorin’s interest, but his brother’s, as well, who put one hand on the other’s shoulder.

“Is that why you haven’t been sleeping the last two days? You dreamed about the cave-in and knew it had been deliberate?”

The agitated younger prince ran a hand through his hair, not meeting their eyes.

“Yes. I can’t tell what are simply dreams and what is the Arkenstone, Fíli. Not unless it reacts like it did to uncle’s mention of the cache.”

The stern glare leveled at the younger dwarf promised that the two would be discussing it at length later, but Fíli thankfully allowed the admission to pass for now, undoubtedly knowing that it would not be wise to corner his brother in front of the entire company. Thorin silently decided to have a word with Nori about warning the princes of his plans from now on.

“Just what was this prophecy?”

Glóin leaned forward intently, reminding Thorin that Óin, the merchant’s older brother, had always claimed skill at reading such things, and had been right often enough that it was wise to pay attention to him.

“The cult was warned that if the blood heirs of Thorin were ever to sit upon the throne of Erebor, their doom would be at hand.”

“But weren’t there two Thorins? Which one did it mean?”

Thorin smiled at their youngest member as Kifir caught the problem several seconds faster than most of his elders.

“That is exactly what they did not know, and so they took steps against both of us. The poisoning ensured that Dain’s son would have no children, even if it did not kill him, so they turned their attention to me. But by that time, we had just settled in the Blue Mountains, and any strangers, even dwarves, were greeted with suspicion as they might once again try to take advantage of our circumstances. So, they waited, and then were able to slip assassins into the troops Dain led to our aid when we had just retaken Erebor.”

“Assassins? Plural?”

Kíli blanched, unconsciously clutching at his brother’s arm in reassurance that the other was still there even as Fíli reached for him in return.

“Yes.” Thorin knew that the time for hiding such things was well passed. “I killed the other one as he sought to take advantage of your distraction when you saw Kíli fall, Fíli. I just didn’t realize it until your mother spoke of what Balin had discovered.”


	40. Blood and Bond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin sees Durin's Bane and Kili is up to his old antics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

40\. Blood and Bond

It was no surprise to any that sleep was hard to come by that night. It was far into the first watch before Thorin at last succumbed to the exhaustion within, lulled by the dull sound of the rain hitting rock outside their meager shelter. His sleep, however, was anything but restful. Nightmarish images of death and destruction played out in his mind over and over- the fall of Erebor, the battles of the Dwarf-Orc War, uncovering his marriage-brother’s body, broken and crushed by the weight of the rock, his brother, his grandfather, Fundin, so many lives ripped away! Finally, he could take no more, some part of him seizing hold of the dreams and thrusting them away with all the stubborn strength of will he had nurtured in himself since he was a dwarfling. Obediently, the images melted away, replaced by snippets of lives not his own; loves, hopes, cares, all passed before him until he found himself plunged into darkness once more.

_Durin’s hand gripped the haft of his axe tightly, mithril head gleaming in the torchlight as the king led his small contingent of personal warriors deeper under the mountains of Khazad-dûm. Only an hour ago, several miners had stumbled into his study stammering out a tale of darkness and flame come to life before their eyes. He had scoffed, for what creature would dare to challenge the might of Durin VI, lord of the deep? Such was the power of his realm that even the elves had found it necessary to treat with him for the gems and metals they mined, and the weapons they forged. That thought brought to the fore the image of the White Lady of Lothlorien and Durin snorted. Arrogant did not begin to describe that one, her nose in the air and every statement made with such mystery and drama that it should become a ballad! What had she said this last time, as they met in the Great Hall? Ah, yes!_

_“Beware, dwarf king, lest you delve too deeply in your search for mithril. Your bane lies beneath, and should you wake it, none will follow you until at last the darkness is banished once more.”_

_Hah! All knew that the elves were jealous of the dwarves and the works of their hands, for those lithe creatures could not bear the underground, and were dependent upon others to bring to the surface what they sought. Khazad-dûm had known a level of peace and plenty unrivaled since the reign of Durin I under his able leadership, the power of the mightiest of the Seven ever guarding and protecting, leading them to yet more wealth. It was the ring that had guided him to this latest seam, the purest ever found, securing the future of his realm for further than even one of the Istari might reckon time._

_“Now, let us see what those cowards ran away from. A bunch of elves, the lot of them!”_

_He did not bother to hide the contempt in his tone, earning an appreciative chuckle from all but one of his companions._

_“Anvri? What ails you?”_

_His brother frowned, sweat rolling down his face though the winding stairs that they stood upon were cool._

_“Can you not feel it, Regin? Evil walks here.”_

_It was a measure of the distress that the other felt, calling him by a name not used for decades. Few now even remembered that he had once been the younger son of his father, not meant to rule, until the signs began to show his destiny. Anvri, his twin, had never begrudged him, preferring the freedom that came with the change in crown prince over the weight of the crown._

_Suddenly, the very stone around them shook with a mighty force, sending all to their knees to grasp whatever they could, one warrior sent tumbling over the edge and into the endless pit of the shaft’s core. Blackness descended as a gust of wind snuffed out the torches along the wall, the stench borne there sending the king into spasms of coughing so hard that he could not speak. It was the smell of death, of carrion and the beasts who fed upon it, and it ate into his very soul. Cries of alarm at last brought the king’s head up to see two massive clawed hands grasping the edge of the stairwell, and what followed was nightmare come to life. Horns, twisted and sharp, topped a head of shadow so deep it had become flesh, eyes burning from within, and two great wings of flame stretching forth from its back. In its hand was a great whip of fire, sizzling the air with every flick of the wrist. The great axe he wielded fell from nerveless hands, the ring slipping from his hand as his brother grabbed at the dagger at his waist, screaming at him to do something, to defend himself. His bane, his doom, and the end of all his hopes and dreams towered before him, and Durin could do nothing but stand as the flaming whip wrapped around his legs and bore him away._

Thorin jolted awake with a gasp, willing his heart to slow down as he gulped in the fresh air around him. Shaking hands pushed his body upright, and he staggered to the fire, staring blindly at it until finally he picked up a branch and stirred up the barely glowing embers, back to Dwalin, who stood watch. Forcing himself into greater wakefulness, he glanced around their camp, eyes accustomed to the dim underground easily picking out the forms of his fellow dwarves. 

Outside, the thunderstorm had devolved into a hard rain with only the occasional flash of lightning, chilling the air but also providing the cover needed to allow their fire to burn. It was the storm within, however, which threatened to consume him. These visions of the past had been both warning and knowledge previously, so what meaning did this one hold? Did it seek to dissuade him from a path he thought to be destiny? Or was it simply the sound of the thunder stirring the dark fears within? He shifted restlessly, his shudder echoed by one of the sleeping forms nearby. Next to him, closest to the warmth of the blaze and well within reach, lay Fíli and Kíli, though it was not the elder of the pair whose restless shifting in his sleep drew their uncle’s attention this night. 

It was Kíli who began to moan and toss his head, garbled words pleading with some unknown adversary. Thorin put out a hand, smoothing back the sweaty locks from a forehead which remained thankfully free of fever, the touch seemingly all it took to quiet the young dwarf back into slumber. It lasted perhaps a quarter of an hour, however, before the brunette head once more tossed, face scrunched in torment, the blonde beside him beginning to echo his brother’s distress as well. 

Sighing, Thorin shifted over to the side of the elder brother as his older nephew began to thrash only to have a hand blindly flung out searching take him in the face. He grunted, cheek stinging from the hard slap, and captured the flailing limb before more damage could be done, gently guiding the seeker until the hand rested upon his younger sibling’s arm. With that touch, both princes let out a long sigh as one, faces smoothing as they settled once more to rest. Their uncle could only shake his head in wonder, and worry, at the deep bond thus displayed, carefully pulling blankets back over them both, and then added his own on top of that. It would not due for either to catch cold after being so thoroughly soaked in the rain. 

Coverings in place, he paused, simply watching them sleep as he had in Minas Tirith. It seemed a lifetime ago, and yet it was only a little over two months! That time had not been easy upon any of them, but it seemed a boon, now, for there had been no real cares beyond the healing of minds and bodies. For one of the few times in his life, he had been able to lay down the weight of leadership and allow himself to just be an uncle and father figure to two trying to find their feet in a new reality, before turmoil had descended upon them once more. Both of them had looked so young, so vulnerable lying there…

“You worry it to death. They will do fine.”

The soft rumble brought the king’s head up to meet the shadowed eyes of his lifelong friend, unable to deny the truth of his cares as the other sat down next to him. Across camp, Nast was a silent form ghosting through the still lumps of the sleepers to take the warrior’s place upon watch.

“I know that they will, Dwalin. It is not them that I doubt, not truly.” 

The warrior fixed him with a stern gaze, dark eyes challenging his friend to explain that. There were few indeed who could make such a demand and have Thorin Oakenshield answer, but this was one he owed too much to deny.

“For perhaps the last month, I have been seeing pieces of the lives of the other Durins.” 

If the other was alarmed by that revelation, he gave no sign of it, simply nodding. It was a mark of almost eight decades apart that this placid acceptance caught Thorin by surprise, the warrior in many ways having taken on some of the mannerisms of his lost brother. Dwalin had never been a talkative dwarf, preferring to allow his axes to speak for him, but he seemed to have mellowed somewhat, more willing to listen and assess rather than judge.

“I had wondered about your change in attitude toward the elves. So what woke you? You were badly shaken.”

And in some ways, the other would never change, keeping watch over his king constantly, an almost unconscious vigilance. It was a measure of the trust Thorin placed in him that he answered readily; speaking of secrets he’d kept close to his heart, only Kíli having been told before this, and only because his uncle had felt the circumstances demanded it.

“Tonight… I saw Durin’s Bane, Dwalin. I looked into the creature’s eyes and felt the burning whip wrap around my body, pulling me into endless darkness. Where one such nightmare slept, could there not be more? By what right do I ask others to follow me back to the tragic place?” His eyes settled on the form of his sister, lying just beyond her sons. “Do I dare ask for another son of Dis’? What if all I do is to lead him to his death as I led his brothers? What would your brother say to such notions?”

Thorin kept staring into the flame, guilty. He knew that it was unfair to burden his friend with such thoughts, especially that last question. Dwalin had always been the source of strength to keep going when his own failed, the confidence to face any challenge no matter the outcome, not the ear to receive doubts in the darkest hours of the night. Before, when uncertainty plagued his mind, and his stomach knotted with the decisions he must make, he’d known he had only to turn to the elder of the brothers; Balin had always been there, consoling, advising, cajoling, whatever the older dwarf somehow knew in his infinite wisdom that his young prince needed. How he missed that gentle voice and chiding glance! 

“He would tell you that it is your birthright and your destiny, just as it is theirs. There can be no other path.”

_There is no other choice, not for me._

The words ghosted through his memory, haunting in their arrogant surety, heartbreaking in their foretelling. Could he but go back and change one single moment in his life, it would be that one. A simple sentence, softly spoken to an old, dear friend, and he had set their feet upon the roadway to death as surely as the cult had with the blades of their assassins.

“Would he? Balin believed the quest to retake Erebor to be folly. He said as much to me, that night in Bilbo’s home, but I would not listen. Would he not call daring the very caverns that claimed his life equally foolhardy?” Thorin’s eyes flicked up to the old warrior, fire reflecting off of the bald pate and darker markings chronicling a shared past. “You have never been one to believe in destiny.”

Dwalin grunted, grimacing as he cast a glance into the darkness where Glóin lay before turning back to his king.

“Not when it is foretold on the wings of birds seen by an old dwarf who left part of his wits and his hearing upon the stones outside of Moria, no. An orc mace to the head will scramble the brain, not grant the ability to read portents.”

“Óin claimed that skill before he was injured in battle, Dwalin.”

“Whatever.” 

One large hand waved that away. Dwalin had always had difficulty relating to Óin and Glóin; though cousins by blood, the unswerving loyalty to the royal line that was the cornerstone of the large warrior’s honor code had no room for the slightly mercenary tendencies and love of gold shown by their merchant kinsmen. Before Thorin could even think to block the move, the other had seized his hand, turning it palm up where the stars were visible above the half-glove of his bracer, hammer and anvil hidden by the leather. One blunt finger stabbed down upon them hard enough to half-curl Thorin’s fingers in reflex as his hand, and entire arm, was shaken in Dwalin’s vehemence.

“This is no addled wish or half understood prophecy. This I will follow to the blackest depths with the dwarf who bears it!”

There was finality to the pledge that sent a chill through him, seeing another form, another brother, though this one was of blood, not bond, saying those words to his predecessor only to meet his death with him in that very deep. Finally, the king was able to pull his hand away, fingers hiding the marks as he coolly met the other’s eyes.

“I will not consider it until the cult has been dealt with, Dwalin.” It was a blatant delaying tactic, but at least it was not a spurious one. He would not leave his sister-sons with unknown enemies still lurking at their backs. “Like true cowards, they acted because they feared their doom, but by doing so, all they have done is secure it. I will mine until I pry the last of them out of their deepest tunnels, no matter where upon Middle Earth they attempt to hide, even should it take the rest of my days!”

His friend’s answering grin was fierce, flames reflected in his eyes telling of the anger kindled within.

“Aye. That’s one prophecy I’ll gladly see fulfilled!”

************************************

It took them five more days of slow, hard travel before they made their way to the northern side of the Mountains of Mirkwood. Unlike the Misty Mountains, these were seldom travelled, and so there was not an established path for them to follow, nor was Legolas much aid. The Silvan elves used a small pass at the eastern end of the range when necessary, a route that was too confining and well known to be safe for the hunted party. Instead, they walked into the unknown, winding their way upward, though it sometimes meant backtracking as they found themselves blocked by rock slides or other obstacles. Several times, Kíli had been forced to go on foot once again, though Thorin immediately noticed that his younger nephew made better time, ending without the cursed exhaustion at night. 

With this in mind, the king had decided to try including the younger prince in his nightly sparring sessions with Fíli. These had begun shortly after they left Radagast as a way for Fíli to grow comfortable with the thought not only of a blade in his hand, but crossing it with one of his kin. It was Bofur who had first started it, guilting the prince with the fact that his injured arm needed to be worked as it healed, and since Fíli was the one who did the damage in the first place, who better to help mend it? The blonde had been reluctant, especially when Bofur quietly asked Thorin to join them shortly after the encounter with the dying spider, though it had soon proven the wisdom of the irrepressibly cheerful toymaker turned councilor. 

By the third night, Bofur had quietly ducked out, claiming exhaustion, and after a few awkward, half-hearted swings, the prince had settled once more into the familiar role of pupil that he had once so eagerly filled in the Blue Mountains. Dwalin had been the first of the others to join them, watching for only one night before his sharply barked commands cut through the gloom of the forest as surely as they had the practice fields, rebuking and correcting all equally. In turn, the others in the party had been drawn to watching the matches, tentative comments quickly turning into the dwarves’ preferred method of communicating with peers in such a situation- friendly mockery and joking at the expense of one or more of the fighters. This had given way on the night after to Gimli and Nast volunteering to also cross weapons with the prince, a move that signaled Fíli’s full acceptance back into the company. 

Now, it was time for Kíli to resume his own work with a blade, re-strengthening legs and sharpening his skill. To say that the younger prince was nervous would be to vastly understate the reality, though he had accepted his uncle’s command to hold himself ready that night without visible expression. The apprehension had appeared in typical Kíli style as he spent part of the day walking with the others, insistent that forcing himself to keep up would only benefit, for a short time, anyway. The first incident had appeared to all to be happenstance. Fíli had been walking just ahead of his brother when he hit the ground in front of him face first with a snarled oath.

“What happened?”

Thorin had turned to ask as he gave the blonde a hand up, watching the prince’s movements to ensure that Fíli showed no outward sign of injury. Given the dark moods the other had been prone to lately, he did not trust his nephew to tell him if he judged the damage to be minor. Behind his brother, Kíli had ducked his head, shuffling a bit before speaking up.

“It was my fault, Thorin. I think my staff caught the back of his boot.”

With nothing but a few small bruises to show for it, Fíli had good naturedly taken the teasing about clumsiness and having a good trip. The second incident, however, had started to make Thorin a bit suspicious. Kíli just ‘happened’ to stumble, putting a hand against a small tree growing nearby. The weight of the dwarf had shaken the tube shaped leaves, dousing Bofur in a shower of water left from the rain storm in the early hours of the morning. What had given the miscreant away was the way he instantly doubled over in laughter at the sight of the now dripping dwarf; though to be honest, half the company was also lost to mirth. It was Fíli who took the other’s sopping wet hat, shaking it out off to the side before handing it back with a word of advice.

“Bathing works better if you take off your clothes first, Bofur.”

The older dwarf took the offered hat only to swat at first one prince, then the other.

“Ach…get moving, you smart mouthed pair o’-“

“What?” Kíli cut him off with a cheeky grin, brown eyes twinkling with mischief. “My brother only offers you the benefit of his princely wisdom!”

That night, an extra bit of hot spice ‘accidently’ found its way into Dwalin’s bowl of stew as the prince passed it to the large warrior. The audacity of that move had Thorin wondering if his younger nephew had developed a sudden death wish, but Dwalin had surprised him by taking the addition to his meal with good grace, shoveling it down with large amount of water. By the time that they moved to practice, Thorin could tell that Kíli would not be able to settle enough for anything productive and tasked the young dwarf with giving Kifir one of the promised archery lessons, instead. 

This not only gave the prince a focus beyond himself, it also ensured the prankster was too busy to enliven anyone’s night with an unwelcome addition to their bedroll. Unfortunately, Thorin had not thought to guard against such things in the middle of the night. The next morning, Gimli woke to find that his gear had been hoisted up into the branches of a nearby tree, leading to a laughing Legolas being called upon to retrieve it. This was enough to send the red-bearded dwarf at his cackling cousin with a roar, the two rolling across the intervening ground, heedless of any others who did not exercise the sense to get out of the way. It was only as Thorin shook his head in mock censure that he recalled Kíli had not regained enough strength and agility to pull such antics alone, and that Legolas was the only one of the company to stand a solo watch that night. When the king switched his glare to the tall prince, however, the other only smiled serenely, the glint of merriment making Thorin wonder just how old an elf had to be before they were considered adult- or acted like it.

It was Fíli and Legolas who finally broke apart the wrestling combatants, each pulling one up to stand, chests heaving, restrained as they glared at one another before both dwarves burst out laughing. The blonde princes had both rolled their eyes at the antics, letting their charges go now that they were certain the two were done. Thorin hid a smile, meeting his sister’s laughing eyes as she placed a hand upon his shoulder, both too pleased with the return of the miscreant in Kíli to reprimand him. The prince had settled down for the day’s march after that rather spectacular reminder of the havoc he used to create in Ered Luin, but to turn a blind eye to the young brunette was to ask for trouble. 

That night, Kíli surprised even himself at the grace and speed with which he was able to resume sparring; scoring a hit on Thorin that had their makeshift audience roaring. Granted, the prince was only able to spar for perhaps half an hour before his legs quivered and gave way without warning, but the brunette only grumbled a bit as his brother helped him up and gave him the hated crutches, packed against just this eventuality on their ever-patient pony. 

By the next morning, the younger prince was once more walking with only the carved staff for assistance, though Thorin stepped in with an ultimatum. Kíli could either ride the pony and spar at night, or walk part of the day, but not both. The prince gave in readily enough, electing to ride the day, which should have warned his uncle, but the king took no heed, a move he deeply regretted that night when his evening ale was mysteriously replaced with tea to ‘sweeten his disposition’. He’d taken one hearty gulp and sprayed the stuff over all seated nearby, including his sister, but that hadn’t stopped several of the party from collapsing on the ground, they laughed so heartily. Given the frustrations of the journey through the mountains, the joke was such a welcome boost to morale that even Thorin had grudgingly, and grumpily, conceded that it was somewhat funny. That only occurred after Kíli had handed over the confiscated ale, however. It was just as well they were in such a sunny disposition, then, for the path ahead was nothing to smile about.


	41. Diplomacy, Dwarven Style

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the dwarves prove once again that diplomacy works best with an ax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

41\. Diplomacy Dwarven Style

The headwaters of the cursed Black River was as unwholesome a place as Thorin had ever seen, the waters bubbling out of dull black rock that carried a biting, putrid odor, coating the back of the throat and stinging the eyes. Worse yet, the rock extended outward in a shelf reaching into the distance on either side of the sluggishly flowing liquid, almost too thick to be named water. To descend, they must either cross the rock or search out an end to the stuff to the east or west, leaving them exposed, for nothing grew upon the slopes here.

“Do you think it safe?”

Nast was the first to speak, face screwed up in distaste as he used a long stick to poke at the ground before them. The guard had not been one prone to prattle, going about his duties each day with a solid, dependable silence akin to Dwalin’s own. 

“I do not know.” Legolas admitted, staring down the slope in front of them in consternation. “We are the first that I know of to venture here.”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out.”

Unsurprisingly, it was Gimli who clomped forward without a qualm, venturing out onto the black surface several feet before turning to face them. Thorin caught the expression upon Glóin’s face from the corner of his eye and settled for glowering at the young fool in front of them, knowing that he could leave the reprimand securely in the hands of his cousin. 

“Seems safe eno- Woah!”

The red haired dwarf had taken another, partial step backward, only to have his feet slide from under him as if he stood upon grease, his body going up in the air momentarily before landing flat on his back with a spectacular crash.

“Gimli!” 

Legolas reacted before any could stop him, racing out toward his friend. Unfortunately, the soft leather of typical elven footwear proved to have even less traction upon the treacherous black surface, sending the elf careening into his just recovering friend, the two going down in a heap of limbs. The only indication that the two were relatively unharmed was a string of moaning complaints in Khuzdul from the bottom of the pile. All held their breath, waiting to see if the two were truly in one piece as none dared try venturing out on the stuff to aid them. Eventually, a grumbling voice could be heard from beneath the shocked elf.

“Legolas?”

“Yes, Gimli?” 

The elf was trying to find a way to climb off his friend and failing miserably as his feet could find no purchase on the stone.

“How do you gain so much weight eating that crap you call food?”

Thorin could not help a snort of amusement as the elf rolled his eyes, finally settling for rolling off the dwarf and starting to crawl toward the edge of the rock, not exactly the most dignified position for a prince. Around him, the rest of the company erupted in laughter as Gimli regained his feet and turned to examine his landing place with a scowl. The warrior’s armor and weapons settled back around him with a clatter as he bent, grabbing up a piece of rock. The place where he and Legolas had lain was now indented, spiral fractures where the rock had broken glittering in the sun. Only one type of black stone that Thorin knew of showed such a pattern upon breaking.

“Obsidian?”

Thorin questioned with surprise, though he did not try moving onto the stuff. This did not quite have the look of that rock, nor did obsidian normally carry an odor. Gimli glanced up at his king with a knitted brow, shaking his head.

“Not sure. Here.”

A gentle toss landed the stone the other had thrown in Thorin’s hands, where he turned it over in puzzlement. Where the rock had fractured, it was glossy and the dark milky black the king had come to expect from obsidian, the glass formed by molten lava, but the part where Gimli landed was a dull, dark black, with a greasy feel to it. He grimaced in distaste, passing it to Kíli, who stood at his elbow as their final member managed to slide his way back to them as if walking upon ice.

“I’ve never seen anything like this.” Bofur’s declaration caught the attention of all, the Broadbeam having been raised in a mining family and spent years underground himself. “’Tis no wonder they slipped, though. Stinks, too.”

“Aye, there’s no way we’ll be crossing that stuff, Thorin.” Gimli groused. “We’d best find a way around.”

The king considered that, searching his mind for any alternative as it would force them farther east then he liked, but unless they grew wings or walked the stream, both impossible, there was nothing else to be done. Legolas had said that the elves kept carefully to their pass, knowing that these mountains were goblin infested, so by avoiding that one area, they should be safe enough. Provided that they did not accidentally choose to camp upon the front doorstep of a goblin lair once more, something that was always a possibility as the filthy creatures weren’t known for putting out signs.

“Agreed.” 

It was almost three miles to the east before they discovered an end to the shelf of obsidian-like rock that had barred their descent, and Thorin chose to push them on a few miles further down slope before camping, though evening fast approached. Something in their surroundings made him uneasy; he could tell by the lack of argument and nervous glances around that he was not the only one to sense it, either. When they rounded several large blackberry bushes, they knew why. There was a path cutting in front of them, too well used to have been solely the province of bears and deer. Thorin spun to pin Legolas with a narrowed glare, suspicion that he had not contemplated in regards to the elf in many long days rising within once more.

“I had thought your people did not come here.”

“We do not.”

Legolas’ consternation was either genuine or extremely well feigned, his hand resting upon the dagger at his belt, fingers nervously tapping at the mallorn wood hilt.

“There are some among us who do.”

The cold voice spoke from the far side of the path, a tall, brown haired elf dropping lightly from the branches of the trees to land cat-like in front of Thorin and Legolas. With barely a rustle to mark their passage, elves appeared from all sides, bows drawn, metal arrow tips glinting in the fading sunset. The Mirkwood prince immediately stiffened, chin rising and eyes blazing as he moved into the face of the other elf, barely inches apart.

“What is the meaning of this, Gilthan? These dwarves are under my protection!”

Thorin held his tongue, knowing that the best chance they had to diffuse the situation lay in the authority and person of the elvish prince. He and Legolas had discussed this very possibility when the route was chosen, their guide assuring him that while his father would be angry, there was little he could do lest Thranduil himself were to come into the forest to countermand his son’s grant of safe passage. Thorin, however, had not been so willing to trust to the good will of the capricious elven king, knowing too well that the other monarch would only honor his word so long as it was convenient for him, and no farther. He had not said as much to Legolas, but he was certain the prince knew his thoughts on the matter nonetheless. 

In front of him, the exchange had devolved into a heated debate in elven, only a few words distinguishable to Thorin’s untrained ear. With one eye upon the archers around them, the king shifted his hand ever so slightly to rest casually upon the hilt of Durin’s blade, seeing several of the others doing likewise. Dwalin, at his shoulder, was already tensed to spring at the slightest hint of command from his liege, feral grin making those archers nearest them shift uneasily. The elves had made a critical error in confronting the party in this manner. 

Bows were traditionally a ranged weapon, not ideal for close quarters, especially against a foe that was smaller and of great strength. Should a melee start, the dwarves actually had fair odds of being able to duck under or to the side of the bows, knocking them aside before the elves could correct their aim, and in hand to hand, the sheer strength and ruthlessness of dwarves put them at the advantage. Not to mention the fact that few elves were trained to counter the swing of a war hammer, mattock, or ax, most of their traditional opponents favoring sword or knife for close combat. It would be messy, and the dwarves would take casualties, but that was preferable to being at the mercy of Thranduil once more, especially with the Death Warriors set to take over Erebor.

Thorin’s attention was drawn back to the verbal battle when Legolas paled, mouth tightening before bursting out in the common speech.

“By what right do you presume to command me?!”

“By my authority, dearest brother. Unless you believe yourself above the authority of your crown princess now that the vagabond Ranger you wasted so much time with has taken his worthless throne.” Aria, Crown Princess of the Woodland Realm, slinked past her archers with all the grace and deadly beauty of a tree viper sighting its prey. “I do not know what Arwen could have been thinking, demeaning herself for such a one as that!”

The elf princess regarded the party with as much enthusiasm as she would a particularly raunchy bit of spoiled food, her sneer and cold aloofness embodying all the worst rumors of elves whispered in the taverns of Middle Earth. Even as she spoke, Aria’s eyes focused past Thorin, only instinct born of being an older brother allowing the dwarf to grab the figure that tried to barrel past him at the lithe figure, face a mask of fury. Dis twisted, trying to break his hold, and Dwalin came to his aid, hand firmly grasping his princess’s other arm, halting her in her tracks. The mutual hostility between the ladies rolled off them so thickly that Thorin could almost see it darkening the air. Now they would be truly fortunate to leave this spot without blood soaking the ground. Legolas had surely taken note of the new dimensions of the conflict, though he tilted his chin up, coolly answering his sibling.

“You do not yet sit upon the Woodland throne, sister, and until you do, we are equal in rank. Only Adar himself may countermand my pledge given to King Thorin and the Princes of Erebor, and doing so would be a grave diplomatic affront indeed. You would do well not to squander what goodwill I have gained amongst our neighbors.”

The prince’s tone was gentle, almost chiding, as one spoke to an erring child who had not yet the wisdom to see the fault in their actions and the logic defending them. At that moment, Thorin would have sworn that Legolas was the elder, though he knew it to be false, the prince’s greater contact with the world outside their halls granting him experience his sister sorely lacked. Aria colored at her sibling’s reprimand, then a tight, cold smile twisted her lips, her voice dripping with the sweetness of the bees’ honey luring the unwary in to be stung.

“Then by all means, let us go nigh to our sire’s halls; allow our beloved king to judge the right and wrong of it. Of course, your companions must needs go bound, I am afraid. All know of the deceit and savagery of dwarves; we cannot in good conscience leave such free to roam our lands and torment those poor creatures that look to us for shelter.”

If the lady truly believed for even a moment that such insult could go unanswered and that they would submit to such an indignity without protest, she was sorely mistaken. Then Thorin took notice of the gleam in those blue-silver eyes and swore, knowing that this was the reaction Aria counted upon. To raise a hand against the Crown Princess would guarantee that her father had no choice but to imprison those responsible, no matter the diplomatic implications. They stood upon the doom of Erebor, and he could perceive no way out. 

A quick glare around the company ensured that none rose to the subtle provocation of the haughty elf, Thorin inwardly amused to see he was not the only one to silently warn his companions. Fíli and Kíli were also making eye contact with all that they could, tempers visible in the bristling of the princes and their hands upon weapons, but both had evidently seen through to the reality of the situation without prompting. Princes of Durin’s Folk indeed; Thorin suddenly felt much reassured about the notion of the two leading their people in his stead. In that instant of inattention, the situation deteriorated further as Dis stomped hard on the arch of Dwalin’s foot, and when he released her arm, turned to Thorin with a swift kick to the shin. With that, the dwarven princess was loose and stalking right up to her elven counterpart, the height difference making the shorter of the pair crane her neck back.

“Fine words from one whose people not only have a habit of standing around while children are slaughtered, but are so blindly arrogant as to teach the Deceiver how to make the Rings of Power! It is not upon the dwarven doorstep that the bodies of those slain by Mordor may be heaped!”

“My people do not murder those who pay for our services, nor willingly forge weapons for the Dark Lord!”

Thorin almost groaned aloud as Dis sucked in a breath of outrage at Aria’s lack of comprehension of the differences in dwarf clans. This was fast deteriorating into a name calling, all-out battle in which both combatants would willingly stand here until the dawn digging up every wrong doing, every slight, real or imagined, between their respective races! Dis had always been the most tolerant of the royal family in regards to the elves, constantly chiding her brother for his blind anger, but she also had an appalling tendency to throw that understanding away when placed in the same vicinity as Aria. The irony was that with this horrific display of hatred being played out in front of him, he at last recognized the truth of his sister’s words, and had to honestly say that he was ashamed. This was not behavior befitting a princess of the royal house of either realm, and he could see the mutual shame in Legolas. With that, Thorin found himself resolutely determining upon a course of action that he would never have believed himself to be contemplating. He would play the peacemaker between the two.

“Enough!” 

His roar had stopped more stubborn and arrogant beings then these two in their tracks. Both ladies turned to gape at him in astonishment, Dis at least having the decency to flush in embarrassment, though it was hard to see in the failing light of the day. 

“Enough, both of you. This gets us nowhere.” Thorin leveled his most intense, commanding glare upon Aria. “You, lady, bring shame upon your house by making us pawns in your power dispute with your brother. You also risk the wellbeing of your people by potentially placing Erebor in hostile hands. We are leaving; do not try to stop us.”

That was a declaration, not a warning, and he could feel Dwalin shifting his stance next to him, war hammer hefted in readiness, spoiling to avenge the insults to the House of Durin. Aria had much to answer for, but now was not the time. The elf, however, did not seem to take heed of the edge that she walked upon, eyes going over his head to pick out the forms of his nephews behind him, sneer turning downright malicious.

“Why, where are my manners? You cannot leave yet, as I have not properly greeted the princes. Surely you would not deny me that-“

It was only with great difficulty that Thorin prevented his sister from physically attacking the taller elf, and he deeply regretted the necessity as he knew that the elf had found sport in taunting his nephews while they were imprisoned in the Elf king’s dungeons. Before anything else could be said, however, they were interrupted yet again, though this time it was by the gurgling cry of one of the archers, falling to the ground with a black arrow protruding from his throat. The stench preceded their foes as goblins swarmed up from their hiding places, screams echoing through the rock of the mountains. The foul creatures did not discriminate in who they attacked, swinging for elf or dwarf, whoever was closer. 

With a mighty yank, Thorin swept Orcrist from its scabbard, the smooth motion passing cleanly through the neck of the nearest goblin before blocking the clumsy swing of another. Dwalin’s bellow mixed with the ringing battle cry of the dwarves screamed by Gimli and Glóin, while the lighter, more musical calls of the elves danced upon the night air. Fíli’s twin swords were a blur of motion as he cut down one foe advancing on his brother, Kíli returning the favor a moment later as he parried a blow that would have taken the blonde in the back. 

Pressed back against a nearby boulder, Thorin saw Dis shielding Kifir with her body as knife after knife left her hand with frightening accuracy, telling quite clearly where her sons’ skill with ranged weapons had come from. Another parry and thrust, Orcrist whistling through the air to leave a track of bright blue, and two more goblins spilled out their stinking black blood upon the mountainside. Then, a lull, as the elven guards pushed forward with their odd, flowing movement almost becoming a deadly dance with the enemy, wickedly curved knives slicing through flesh as the battle flowed away from the dwarves. Gimli started to charge past, ax dripping blood, when Thorin’s hand stayed his action.

“No! Back, all of you! We leave them to the elves!”

Coming out of the darkness to the king’s side, Dwalin grinned wolfishly at the notion.

“Aye, they deserve each other.”

Legolas hesitated, momentarily torn, and then nodded, waving the party down the slope and away from the clash of weapons. It went against every instinct in Thorin to back away from a fight, and yet, it would do his people no good to be delayed by the princess’s arrogance past Durin’s Day, and so he counted heads as the others passed. None looked to be in dire need of healing, though Glóin limped slightly and a newly lit lantern showed a bruise already darkening upon Nast’s cheek. Kíli moved with his brother’s aid, though the youngest of the pair waved away his uncle’s concern.

“Tired only, not hurt, either of us.”

It was said a bit breathlessly, but there was no sheen of pain to either face, so Thorin allowed them to pass, grabbing up the reins of their pony to walk just behind the brothers. Dwalin, he knew, would take it upon himself to walk rear guard so long as there was any chance of the goblins returning. As they disappeared into the night, away from the clash of weapons, he could only thank Mahal for getting them through yet another trial intact and one step closer to Erebor.


	42. The Lives of Durin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin accepts his destiny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

42\. The Lives of Durin

It was the evening of the second day after their encounter with the goblins when the elf appeared at the edge of their camp. All were on their feet within seconds, weapons held to the ready, Kíli with an arrow notched, though he did not fire. Legolas immediately placed himself between the dwarves and his fellow elf, though he spoke loudly in the common tongue so that all could hear.

“Gilthan, I am pleased to see you intact.”

“A handful of goblins are not much of a challenge, Legolas. Gilnar, only, fell, and it was due to his own inattentiveness. He will live, but his voice is destroyed.”

There was a genuine regret there, though Thorin thought it little enough when he recalled the elf scout who went down with an arrow to the neck. Legolas grimaced, but then lifted his head high.

“And do you now come to try to enforce my sister’s command?”

Thorin heard a snort of satisfaction from Gimli at the emphasis placed upon the word ‘try’. The other elf, however, simply smiled slightly.

“I have no wish to raise a hand against my prince. I was sent with a message from the king. None will impede you upon the path, for the dwarves of Erebor are not the only ones to recognize the danger should the mountain fall to unfriendly hands. We may do no more than that.”

“No words of apology for the lack of manners in that creature you label a princess?”

Once more, Thorin found himself forced to seize his sister’s arm, holding tight, though he could not silence her voice. Gilthan, however, seemed unruffled by the verbal assault, giving the dwarven princess a short bow.

“We do not apologize for speaking the truth, Lady Dis, though in this case, the king has commanded that none of our people have met with your party. Lady Aria encountered goblins only, an unfortunate affair, but they grow desperate now that their dark lord has fallen. Peace to you all. My prince.”

With another bow, the elf melted back into the greenery surrounding them, gone before Thorin could take more than a step forward. Thranduil was walking a fine diplomatic line this time, giving them passage yet able to claim he gave no aid should the need arise. It was a typically Silvan answer to a problem – whatever the situation, ensure that the elves have some claim with whichever side should prove victorious. This is what had led to the abandonment of his people on the day that Erebor fell, and why he would never trust Thranduil again. With a huff of disgust, he released his sister’s arm, turning away from where the elf had been.

“At least they won’t try to stop us this time, that’s something, isn’t it?”

Fíli’s blonde hair shown in a shaft of sunlight filtering down through a gap in the trees as he looked hopefully to his uncle. 

“It is no more than I expected out of that one. Come, we need to eat and bed down, we still have a long way to go.”

Thorin waved at the others to continue preparations for evening, knowing how quickly the light faded now that they were out of the mountains and back among the trees. This was not, however, the same forest that the dwarves recalled from the first quest to Erebor. The forest was no longer twisted and dark, normal animal life all around them and the air full of life, if still a bit stifling. If this was truly what these woods had been like before the spreading taint of Dol Guldur, Thorin could at last see why they had earned the name of Greenwood the Great. 

*****************************

The elves, for once, had proven true to their word, the company seeing no one other than each other for the next sixteen days. Though the trek through the forest seemed endless, they did not have many of the concerns that strained the party the last time. At regular intervals of a few days, Legolas would suddenly take to the trees, returning perhaps half an hour later with a small bundle of provisions, none asking where the bounty had come from. The monotony of the travel and camp life began to wear upon them, but it was by far better than the endless disasters, targeted and natural, that had seemed to plague the rest of their trip. They were also not starving by any means, though the lack of meat, of course, occasioned grumbling, especially from Dwalin and Glóin; a quelling glare from Thorin was quick to silence them, not even his cousins stupid enough to dare the king’s temper. They were forbidden to hunt here, but once more luck favored them just as Thorin feared grumbling bellies might cause anger to boil over, Legolas returning with a deer whose front legs had clearly been broken.

Relieved of the necessity to travel in silence, the stories began once more, the princes easily prevailing upon Gimli and Legolas to share anecdotes from the Fellowship. Both of that odd duo were quick to tell tales from early on that did not always display the better natures of dwarves and elves when forced into close proximity to one another, able to laugh off the misunderstandings and quarrels easily now. Thorin suspected that they were subtly trying to impart a lesson to Gimli’s father, though the king feared the two would need the use of Dwalin’s war hammer before the older dwarf caught on to what they were trying to show him. 

The subject of the Fellowship’s passage through Khazad-dûm was also brought up, and Thorin’s heart sank at the descriptions of the damage and deterioration of those once majestic halls. He was able to follow the path Gandalf had led them on mentally, the corridors of the great realm as familiar to his forefathers as the halls of Erebor now were to Kíli. Should he lead his people there, the task of rebuilding and restoring would last several lifetimes, and he found himself asking if it were worth the price they would surely pay to do so. And yet… whenever the doubts crept in, he would find himself falling into memories Khazad-dûm in its prime; of dwarflings chasing elflings through the stone halls, of great feasts held under the light of hundreds of glittering lanterns, of the pride as Durin walked amongst his people, and the beauty created there, sought by kings and queens. To return the Khazad to such glory, surely that was a worthy dream!

As the early afternoon sun cut through the trees, the forest in front of them abruptly ended, and Thorin was quick to halt the party, keeping them hidden in the sheltering boughs as he stared at the sight before him. Almost a full week before Durin’s Day and they were little more than a fast night’s march from their goal! His breath caught as he heard the others gathering in equally stunned amazement, eyes drinking in the beauty of the Lonely Mountain. It was so vastly different from what he remembered from what seemed to be mere months ago, yet was in reality almost eighty years. The mountain still rose toward the sky, as it had since first seen by a Khazad, but its sides were no longer the bleak rock and cold winds left by the dragon. No, now the land was alive with great fir trees darkening the mountainsides, with green grass and the occasional tree stretching across the former wastes in its shadow. To the right, in the south, lay Dale, brightly colored banners snapping in the wind and merry kites riding the breezes as they had so long ago. It was as if he had stepped back in time! Thorin’s breathe caught, eyes tracking to the north, where the beast had come from, but no fire rained down this day, even as tears rolled unchecked and unheeded down his cheeks to be lost in his beard. 

Looking beside him, he saw Fíli and Kíli both standing frozen, attention locked on Erebor with such a look of naked longing and joy that their uncle’s breath caught, for well did he remember the last time they had stood so near their goal. Then, the princes had been curious about their great-grandfather’s fallen kingdom, but he’d known that neither of them regarded it as home. No, to those two, home had been the small suite of rooms in the halls of Ered Luin, an ancient ruin repurposed to shelter the Khazad once more, though they had been forced to collapse parts of it that were so unstable they dared not leave them standing. This mountain had never been a place of shelter and warmth to his sister-sons, only a distant memory passed down in song and tale, then the horrific sight of their last bloody hours, yet now they regarded it with the same overwhelming emotion Thorin had once lost himself to.

At that thought, the king found himself hastily turning away to move back into the forest, stopping in the small clearing where Legolas had advised they wait until nightfall. One hand swiping at the tear tracks upon his face, Thorin Oakenshield sank to a log, focused unseeing on the dirt beneath him. He did not even hear another approach, startling when a hand rested upon his shoulder, squeezing gently.

“What’s the matter, brother?”

He straightened to regard her, drinking in the sight of the sweet face, braids twining back from her bearded cheeks to join the intricate coil around her head, creating a coronet of mithril silver strands where brown had once been. Gently, he reached out, hand snagging one of the two loose braids that hung by her face on either side, as they did his, allowing the soft weave to snake through his fingers until it fell back in place, swinging slightly. Next, his fingers traced the lines cut into that once smooth brow, lingering upon a scar gotten during childhood with two brothers who did not always understand the fragility of a younger sibling, then to one he did not recognize upon her chin. She shrugged away from his touch, worry in her Durin blue eyes.

“Thorin?”

He was frightening her, he knew, but he could not break the fey mood that had caught him. His smile was strained, his eyes most likely giving away the lie as his gaze darted away from hers.

“Do not worry about me, little sister, I am fine.”

This time it was Dis who caught one of his braids, giving it a light tug as she’d been wont to do since only a babe, a practice that had irritated her fifteen year old oh so serious brother to no end.  
“Liar. What did you see that so troubles you?”

Thorin had to pause at that, trying to place words upon the jumble of emotions racing through him, changing, twisting and turning with every breath until he did not know what he was truly feeling. Shaking his head, he realized that he’d unconsciously twined her braid around his fingers once more, until the silver and sapphire bead at the end caught the sunlight, flashing a brilliant blue.

“Vili’s work?”

Dis gave a sigh of exasperation at the blatant dodge, but chose to answer him anyway.

“Yes. He’s only gotten better with time.”

Thorin knew that to be a feat in itself. Dis’ former marriage-brother turned husband had lost the use of one hand when his arm was crushed in the cave-in that killed his younger brother, Vidri. Unfortunately, the exiles had little to spare, and any who could not support themselves were a weight upon the community. Vili, however, had picked himself up, learning to craft the small, intricate work Thorin now saw before him, clamps and other devices compensating for the lack of a second hand. Now, Dis gently tugged her braid from his hold, one hand cupping his cheek, thumb brushing down his cheek to his short beard.

“Will you not speak to me?”

“What do you see when you look to the mountain, Dis?”

That question had nuances to it that words, and Thorin’s own inadequacies when it came to expressing the gentler feelings, failed to express, but somehow his sister read the meaning in his stumbling attempt. 

“I see home- or a home. For me, there has been several.”

“What do you mean, Mother?”

Fíli’s soft inquiry alerted the siblings to her sons’ joining them, both wearing the same slightly unsettled expressions that Thorin had. Thorin was about to rebuke the two for intruding upon a private conversation when his sister’s sad smile welcomed them instead. Beyond, the rest of the company was gathering respectfully out of earshot, talking quietly amongst themselves. Dis put a palm to her eldest’s face; fingers sliding down to gently tug on his mustache braids before putting an arm around her younger son, allowing the brunette to lean into her. Thorin had to smile slightly at the scene, knowing his sister had always been one to touch, maybe because their parents hadn’t.

“When I remember the princess, the pampered treasure of the Line of Durin, home was Erebor as it was under Grandfather, prosperous, where fear had little meaning. When I think of your uncle, Frérin, Mother, Father, Grandfather that is ‘home’, the place where the good memories reside. For your father and for the two of you… well, not you now of course, but before, it will always be the rooms in Thorin’s Halls at Ered Luin. The mountain meadow where you and Kíli liked to play, the stream your father fell into trying to learn to fish, the forge, that is home. Now, with Vili, Therin, and Lis, it is the mountain you just saw, though it can never again be the sheltered, carefree place in which I was born. Too much sadness walks those halls, too many sacrifices made, making it all the more dear to me. Does that make sense, Fíli?”

“Aye.”

The blonde was staring off into the forest, pensive, Kíli also strangely silent as they sat there, only the soft buzzing drone of insects surrounding them. An arched eyebrow from his sister warned Thorin that he was not about to get away from an explanation for the mood he was displaying, especially as the melancholia deepened, undoubtedly showing in his eyes now.

“And you, brother? What did you see? A triumph at last? When you are able to walk its halls, you will see the work of almost eighty years has done much to return to us the look of the Erebor of old, and it was your hand that allowed us to do so. Without your stubborn idiotic quest, we’d likely still be in Ered Luin.”

Though she used derogatory terms, her voice was affectionately teasing, letting him know that she, too, remembered only too well the arguments that had raged in their rooms before he left, taking her sons with him. Both those words had been used frequently, and at great volume, if he recalled! Even that, however, could not draw him out of the sadness, the deep sense of loss he now suffered even as he recognized at last why he was feeling this way. 

“I see the past.” Those stark words brought sharp inhalations of shock from his kin. “I see a kingdom that taught a headstrong young prince responsibility and honor, the weight of the crown; through my grandfather’s rule, the loss to Smaug, the exile, the retaking, even the gold sickness. It can never again be home, that path is closed with the death of Thorin Oakenshield before its gates. I am Durin, and the halls I see are not here, but deep under the southern Misty Mountains, where feasts were once held under the light of hundreds of candles and shafts drop deep into the very bedrock of our world.”

With that statement, Thorin Oakenshield was laid to rest, and Durin VII Returned fully accepted not only the road before him, but the changes wrought within, opening the last doors of his soul separating him from the lives already lived, allowing the memories and experiences to envelope him. He would no longer fear what his ultimate forefather had chosen to forge throughout his line. At this silent pledge, he felt a searing across his marked palm, other fingers fumbling now to undo the vambrace he wore. Other hands joined him, but the king’s head was in such a fog that he could not look up to even identify his helper. At last, the thing came free, and he gasped, for his hand was no longer burned with black, the symbols now shown with an inner light before fading, leaving the scars the color and look of pure mithril in their wake. Within, lives paraded before his eyes, some so quickly that he barely had an opportunity to grasp their presence, others lingering, sometimes bitter.  
 _  
Durin stared down into the still waters of the Mirrormere, startled to see seven stars move in the reflection, settling about his brow in a glittering circlet of pure light, and knew that he had at last found a true home for his people. Years of backbreaking work, grief, anger, the endless search, done now. Here would he rule now and always._

_The hoarse desperation of the dying rang in his ears as Durin made his way across the battlefield, forcing himself to pay no heed to the dead beneath his iron soles. He could do nothing for them now, bodies covering the earth as far as the eye could see- men, elves, dwarves, a few eagles, orcs and their lesser kin, and great blackness marking the few Balrogs that had fallen. This would be the last stand, for upon this field were all that was left free of Morgroth’s taint, attempting to overthrow his stronghold at Angband in the far north. It was cold here, and not the healthy constant chill of the deeps, but the biting ice that attempted to stop even the mighty Khazad in their tracks. He would meet whatever fate waited proudly, axe in hand, war cry upon his lips as he broke into a run, Khuzdul screamed into the wind._

_Durin II sat pensively staring at the reports, trying to make sense of the darkness that was creeping across the land once more. The corruption of Men worried him deeply, for such things should have been banished with the binding and casting into the Void of Morgroth, yet every year brought more tales. They would not soon be at his doors, of course, the elves ensured that. He reminded himself absently that he must make a trip to see this new daughter of Celeborn and Galadriel. The Sindarin Lord would not be pleased with his presence, but that was too bad, as Galadriel would be, and in such things, it was best to listen to the mother. He would need a suitable gift, however. Perhaps a rattle made of mithril?_

_Durin III shook his head as he fought to keep up with his taller friend, finally halting in the corridor and putting hands on hips as the elf turned in surprise._

_“I know you feel uneasy about that one, Celebrimbor, but we can do nothing by running through the mountain like newly slaughtered chickens! Slow down!”_

_The tall Noldorin prince at least had the grace to drop his head ruefully, violet eyes filled with the turmoil that embroiled his capital city. The generous offer of Eregion’s mysterious visitor did seem a bit too much good fortune to be without hidden traps, especially given the sheer greed of Men, but yet…_

_“There is something about that one, Durin, which does not speak true to me, but I cannot decide why. The rings he offers to aid us in creating-“_

_The elf cut himself off, fist clenched around the plain gold band he had shown the dwarf king earlier. It looked to be simple enough, only aiding the wearer in feeling the flaws within the metal being forged, but his friend did not trust it, wanting Durin’s own smiths to examine the thing. Especially as the smiths of Eregion were even now working upon other, more powerful rings._

_“I am tempted to try my hand at it myself. It has been long since I crafted something with such delicacy, yet such strength, that it may yet prove a worthy challenge.”_

_“So that’s what this is about? You wish an excuse to fire up your forge without being seen as neglecting your other duties!”_

_Durin’s shaking finger could not reach the face of his tall friend, but the belly laugh soon at least had the other chuckling along with him._

_Durin IV caught the little dwarfling as the young prince charged his grandfather upon sturdy legs, swinging the little one around and around in welcome. As he hugged the child, he could not help but think of all those who did not return with him, who would never know such simple joys again, and prayed to Mahal that the threat of Sauron was truly ended, despite the misgivings of Elrond. Surely such a little thing as that band of gold could not be that much of a threat? Let Isildur keep his prize if he were so insistent! There were much more important things to think of now, such as-_

_“Grandfather, will you play the dragon for me? I have waited and waited for you!”_

_Such as the games of one little tow headed prince, the only one upon Middle Earth who could persuade the mighty king of Khazad-dûm to crawl upon the floor roaring while the child danced around him with one of his mother’s pots upon his head as a helm and a stick to serve as an ax._

_Durin V scowled as he ran a hand along the wall, fingers easily picking out the stress fractures from the weight of shifting rock. This was the third such place to show signs in the last seven-day, not a good record when their only alternative was to delve ever deeper with new shafts. The mere thought made him uneasy, but mithril was what their trading partners most desired, and every year brought new wars upon Middle Earth, making dwarven weapons a necessity. No longer did the majority of the smiths indulge in designing jewelry and other fripperies, spending their days instead upon axes, swords, and knives._

_“Close this tunnel until we can locate the source of that quake, Botur. The men of Gondor will have to curb their impatience for their weapons until we can locate a new seam. I’ll not risk lives for the greed of men.”_

_Durin VI flipped his hand impatiently at his son and brother before going back to idly turning the large ring that he always wore._

_“We go deeper, that’s all. There is more mithril there, and we need it!”_

_“Father, I’m not sure-“_

_“I did not ask you to be sure, Nain, I asked that you do as you’re told. The vein is there, if you look hard enough.”_

_A weary sigh came from the younger dwarf, though Durin did not pay much attention. The wealth was there for the taking, and they would be the ones to do so._

Six different dwarves, different times, different lives, but the thread of one soul traced through them all, culminating in the one standing now upon the edge of the forest, ready to embrace the path that destiny had called him to.


	43. Return to Erebor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the dwarves finally return to where they started from, and there are several bad puns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

43\. Return to Erebor

Twilight was fast descending upon the forest as Thorin at last turned back to the others, tearing himself from the lives and memories swirling through him. The others glanced up at his movement from where they all sat upon the ground, then stood, gathering around as they had once before, on another night not far outside of the Shire, though many of the faces were different. Thorin inclined his head to them, but this time addressed his comments to the group.

“We have made it this far, but I fear that the claiming of the mountain will not be so easy this time.”

The statement was deliberately provocative, more to prevent any inquiries about what had occurred earlier than to rile up his cousins. Of course, that it actually accomplished both those tasks at least provided a bit of perverse amusement to the king. Dwalin’s face darkened faster than an incoming thunderstorm, though he made no comment. Glóin, however, was already spluttering, red creeping up under his snowy beard.

“E-easy! Easy?! You- It wasn’t-“

A sharp gesture cut the other dwarf off as the king fixed him with a stern glare.

“It was easy, and you know it, Glóin. A single arrow not even from a dwarven bow brought Smaug down with none of the Company even singed. It was what came after that was so truly costly.”

His cousin blanched at that, flush draining from his face as quickly as it had appeared earlier. Behind him, Dwalin rolled his eyes, once more leaning upon the head of his war hammer, while Bofur looked to be torn between amusement and a wince. Fíli’s face was grim, the countenance of a warrior prince, eyes sober with memory, one hand resting upon his brother’s shoulder, whose brow was knit in puzzlement, gaze darting between them all as if seeking answers to the mystery. 

Thorin almost backed down then, prepared to brush off his words, but he knew that the young prince could not be kept in ignorance any longer. Who knew what memories might be brought to the fore by walking the ancient stone halls once more? Far better that Kíli hear the truth now, from his uncle, then be ambushed by it in the midst of the turmoil to come. He faced his younger nephew squarely, allowing the pain of his actions to show in the deep blue of his eyes.

“I fell to the gold sickness, Kíli. When the Men of Dale came seeking just compensation in gold so that they could rebuild what the dragon had destroyed, I denied them, though there was more than enough for all. It was Bilbo who saved us all, stealing the Arkenstone and giving it to Bard in return for a pledge to aid us in defense of the mountain as an army of orcs, goblins, and wargs descended upon us. Had he not done so…”

Thorin fell silent, eyes locked upon Kíli as the younger dwarf struggled to process all that he had been told. Behind the others, Legolas looked as if he meant to interject something, but a swiftly placed elbow from Gimli silenced the elf, a move Thorin was thankful for. There was no need to bring up the elves and their place in the tale, especially as the king would never acknowledge any claim the pointy eared pains had. By what right did those who’d turned their backs upon their sworn allies claim any compensation or reward?

Kili’s fists clenched, knuckles turning white where they held his walking stick, and the young dwarf swallowed hard as all stood, awaiting his reaction. The prince finally dropped his eyes and shook his head, turning away from his uncle and shrugging off his brother’s restraining hand. As the young dwarf stalked from the clearing, Thorin dropped heavily back onto the log, the implicit rejection weighing heavier upon him than any shouts or swearing could have. Fíli gave him a rough squeeze on the shoulder, compassion and understanding in his young face, before turning to follow his sibling. Dis was quick to lean against him, jostling the king until he turned to her.

“Give him time, Thorin. You know Kíli is as quick to forgive as to anger, and that was quite a boulder you just dropped upon his head. He knows that you are not the same dwarf you were then, but he has also been through a lot lately, with Fíli’s taint, and then this. It was wise of you to tell him now, in your words, rather than wait for him to hear it from someone else in the mountain.”

That echo of his own reasoning gave some reassurance, at least. A lithe figure approaching him dragged the king from further self recriminations, standing to face the elven prince.

“I must take my leave, Thorin Oakenshield. I wish you success, and if there is anything I may aid with, do not hesitate to send word.”

The sincerity in those words provoked a small smile and a raised eyebrow from the dwarf king. He was more at ease with this one than he had ever thought possible, given how they had originally met with Legolas’ arrow in Thorin’s face!

“Somehow, I do not believe that the rest of your kin would feel likewise, Prince Legolas. Nonetheless, for my part, I thank you for your aid, inadequate though the words be for all you have done. Know that from this day forward, you, at least, will always find welcome in my realm.”

The clasp of warriors and equals, hand to the other’s wrist, was exchanged in solemn sincerity, an action that Thorin would never have believed himself capable of offering an elf, yet here he was. The others added their thanks and farewells, even Glóin managing a surely nod and Dwalin a clasp that the expression upon the prince’s face said almost broke bones, it was so strong. Thorin, however, had returned to his former seat, brooding returning almost as swiftly as it had lifted, when Fíli and Kíli reappeared from among the trees. The older prince stopped to offer his own goodbyes to his elven counterpart, but the younger of the duo went straight to Thorin, sinking to his knees before his uncle and placing his fine-boned archer’s hands over the older dwarf’s large, scarred ones. Thorin hesitated to meet his gaze, the coward in him unable to bear the sight of the shattered betrayal that was surely there. It was only Kili’s soft words that brought his uncle’s head up in astonishment.

“You once told me that the only true mistakes were the ones that you fail to admit to, an action that no prince of Durin’s Folk would allow to stand, no matter the consequences. Courage is not only to be found upon the field of battle, but in the actions that we take daily.”

Blue eyes met brown, the understanding there almost stealing away Thorin’s breath once more. No matter how many pranks this one pulled, how shallow a youth Kíli sometimes seemed, it was moments like these that reminded all of the depths hiding within the prince, hinting at the greatness to come. Thorin allowed his body to tilt forward, forehead meeting that of his nephew in shared acknowledgement and mute thanks before the king stood.

“Come, night is falling and we have far to travel. Bofur, can you locate the trail head in the darkness?”

The gloom almost covered the irrepressibly cheerful dwarf’s somewhat rueful smile.

“Truthfully, Thorin, I’d been more concerned about trying to find it in daylight. I’ve only ever used it at night.”

That engendered some good natured ribbing from the others, but Thorin ignored it, turning with Fíli at his side to regard a still kneeling Kíli. The younger prince had not moved except to allow his hair to fall forward, hiding his face.

“Kíli? Something wrong?”

His older brother beat Thorin to the question, one hand resting upon the wild brunette hair. The king ducked down, catching just a glimpse of a face red with frustration and embarrassment before the other’s low words carried to them.

“I fear that I must admit to one of those mistakes now.”

The tone was light, though both his brother and uncle could hear the true feelings that the other was trying hard to mask.

“What do you mean?”

When Kíli finally answered his sibling, the words were directed at the ground in almost a growl.

“My legs won’t push enough for me to get up. They’re cramped!”

The edges of Fíli’s mouth twitched suspiciously, only a glare from Thorin keeping the blonde from saying anything as the two hooked hands under the young prince’s armpits and hoisted him to his feet as discretely as they could. Kili’s face eased as he regained his footing, quickly standing firm with a nod to them that all was well. Thorin gave his nephew another slap to the shoulder, then turned to their new guide, upturned hat making a rather quirky silhouette against the background of the lantern Glóin held.

“Keep the light well shielded, Glóin. Now would not be the time for the cult to spot us. Bofur, lead on.”

The other dwarf grinned, dark eyes glinting in the light as he moved past his king and princes.

“Watch your step, everyone. This trail isn’t the best, and we dare not use light until we’re at the hidden door. Kíli, you’ll need to walk, let us know if you need help. I’d rather not start my years as a royal councilor by havin’ my prince roll down the mountainside!”

“Aye, he’d rattle and bounce the whole way, waking the entire kingdom!”

Kíli flushed a bit at the verbal jab, but settled for shooting Gimli a narrow eyed glare promising payback in the near future before straightening to imitate Fíli at his most dignified, falling in step with his brother. Dwalin, directly behind the two princes, just shook his head in the same tired manner he’d often displayed when forced to referee the three younglings on the practice fields of Ered Luin.

“Some things do not change.”

Thorin smiled at the good natured grumble from the large warrior, falling into step at the other’s side.

“Would we truly wish them to?”

Though he could not see it in the darkness, Thorin knew there was a smile upon his old friend’s face. The trek up the mountain was every bit as rough as Bofur had warned, sending them scrambling over boulders and worming their way through hidden tunnels as they followed the twists and turns of their guide. There was no pattern to the path they took, except that it was kept strictly away from the eyes of any who would be upon the battlements or even chancing a glance out a casement in the outer apartments or up from Dale. It was so well concealed, in fact, that Thorin doubted any but an eagle flying overhead would chance upon them. It must have taken several years of slow, discrete work to plat out, too.

“I never thought to be burglaring our own kingdom once, let alone twice.”

The soft mutter came from Kíli, walking just ahead with his brother, who chuckled.

“Aye, I wonder if this is how Bilbo felt? Think we should set up our own burglar service, little brother? We could be princes of thieves instead of a mountain!”

The door, when they approached, was shut, blending seamlessly into the mountain until Bofur gave several carefully placed taps with the hilt of a dagger on the rock. Soundlessly, the very face of the mountain began to swing outward, the light within outlining a cloaked figure, the hood quickly pushed back to reveal a familiar silhouette complete with tri-fold hair style. Any sound they might have uttered was cut off with a quick slash of the ex-thief’s hand, and then he stood aside to allow them entry, head bobbing in a bow when Thorin passed him. 

The halls of Erebor were enough to take away any breathe the king had left after the climb, gleaming in greens and golds even in the low lighting of nighttime under the mountain. This was the kingdom of his dreams, the one that he had failed to find at the end of the quest! In front of him, Dis and Bofur had to keep urging Kíli on, as the younger prince’s eyes seemed to be everywhere about him but where he was supposed to be placing his feet, not that Thorin could truly blame him. The arching stairs and halls, the statues, glimmering gems set about their bases, there was a beauty to Erebor that could be matched by no other, even the glimpses of Khazad-dûm he’d seen in the memories of the other Durins. This would always be his first home, a past that could be left behind, but that the heart would never truly allow to be replaced.

As they kept winding down through the halls, Thorin noted with amusement that the guards continued to stare straight ahead, as if the entire company had become as invisible as Bilbo had once been, though he had no doubt that no magic was involved here. Instead, the pride in one dwarf’s eyes told of loyalty to his rulers and to the large warrior walking beside him, making Thorin feel a bit less like someone was staking out a target between his shoulder blades! It was, unfortunately, an unease that redoubled as the king realized just where Nori was leading them as they continued plunging downward, toward the very core of the mountain. Here, the royals of old slept eternally beneath the stone of their kingdom, silent and cold, and here-

“In here, quickly.”

Nori’s muttered direction broke Thorin from such morbid thoughts, not bothering to take note of which of the royal tombs the other waved him into as he pushed past the spy master and into the enveloping darkness. Once inside, he only halted when he felt his knee bump against stone, the clatter of a piece shifting overriding anything that his companions might have said. Apparently, more damage had been done by the quakes that accompanied their resurrection than had been thought if one of the old tombs had also broken. The soft scrape of stone against stone signaled the door being closed, then a lantern was unshielded, allowing a golden glow to fall upon the king as he squinted, trying to make out the one who held it.

“Thorin! ‘Tis really true!”

The accent and the quick bow identified the other as Thorin held out a hand to be clasped by his old companion, marveling at how well the older dwarf still looked. 

“Dori. Your absence will not be noted?”

The other dwarf’s expression saddened as he shook his head.

“No. Not many pay attention to a qualling old fool now.”

“The more fools they then, aye?”

Bofur’s grin and hearty clap almost sent the shorter dwarf sprawling, only Nori’s quick hand under his brother’s arm stopping the motion. Before anything more could be said, however, Kili’s pained plea rang out in the abrupt silence.

“Fíli, you might not want to sit there.”

The two princes were close together, the elder brother perched on a stone ledge of some kind as his younger brother stood stiffly next to him, unease on his expressive face. A gasp from Dori reminded Thorin that all within the mountain had been told that Kíli was dead once more, the victim of an assassin’s arrow. The blonde prince shot a sympathetic glance at the two newcomers before turning a puzzled frown upon his brother. 

“Why wouldn’t-“

The question was cut off as Dori turned the lantern he held fully on the princes, allowing the light to fall upon the stone tomb the older one sat upon. Fíli’s reaction was to instinctively jump away from the revealed stone, but with so many of them in a small area, the prince inevitably tripped over young Kifir, flailing into his own brother before landing unceremoniously on the stone floor with an explosion of breath. Kíli instantly doubled over laughing, clutching hard at his walking stick to stay upright as nervous laughter spread through the ranks of their companions.

“I tried to warn you!”

“Fíli-lad, if you had something that grave to say, there was no need to bury it!”

Bofur’s all-too-cheerful quip met with collected groans from the others as Dis reached down a hand to haul her son to his feet, smile straining to settle upon either merriment or grief. As the blonde stood, she reached up to smooth his hair back down, tears glittering in the torchlight.

“Let’s try to resurrect a bit of that princely dignity, hmm?”

That sent Kíli off again, the brunette leaning to brace himself on the edge of the tomb his brother had been sitting upon even as Fíli rolled his eyes in a silent ‘how could you?’ to his mother. The younger prince sobered rather rapidly as he leaned past the broken stone lid of the sarcophagus to fish something out, turning to sit fully upon the edge as his hands lightly traced the designs etched into the broken bow he set in his lap. 

“This was mine, wasn’t it?”

Fíli blanched, not bothering to answer his little brother as he clutched at his mother, looking around them in dawning horror. Dis in her turn paling slightly as her blue gaze locked upon something just behind Thorin. With a sigh, he moved to stand in front of the stone, a quick downward glance catching the lines of the bottom of an anvil. He could not blame Dori and Nori’s reasoning as to where in Erebor they were least likely to be discovered, but he could also have wished for a bit of warning. Standing in one’s own burial vault was a trifle unsettling, even after all that had happened. Reaching for his sister’s hands, he was not surprised to find them as cold as the snowy mountain peak, squeezing them gently.

“This is now an empty room, Dis, nothing more.”

“I brought clothes to cover the tombs, Lady Dis, you just arrived before I could do so. I’m sorry.”

Both royal siblings summoned a slight smile for their very distant cousin, the princess squeezing the older dwarf on the arm in turn.

“It’s alright, Dori, I didn’t realize where we were headed, that’s all. My sons and my brother are right here, alive, and they’ll be staying that way this time.”

Dori’s grey eyes tracked to the younger prince before returning to his king.

“We’d received a message that Prince Kíli-“

“A necessary deception.”

Dwalin’s grunt was accepted with another nervous bob of the grey head, intricate braids still just as Thorin remembered them, though the older dwarf was now dressed in much finer clothing then he’d been wont to wear even in the Halls of Ered Luin. Studying the other closely, Thorin could see the fine lines that age and grief had etched into Dori’s features, though he did not look to be fading, despite the self-derogatory remarks he’d made earlier. At almost two hundred and sixty, he would be a long-lived dwarf, but it was not unheard of for one of their kind to reach three hundred should the will to continue be there. Dwarves did not normally die of illness as the elderly of Men did, but simply lost the spirit to live and abruptly died, as a rock finally crumbles under the wear of wind and rain. Most often it was due to injury or grief, such as that which must have been dealt with the knowledge of Ori’s fate in Moria, yet the tilt of that head and the spark of the eyes said this dwarf would not bow down so easily. Dori had always been the physically strongest of the company, though now Thorin was beginning to wonder if he was the strongest in soul as well. It was a strength that they would all need in the days ahead, as they waited for the moment when the fate of Erebor would be decided at last.


	44. Hours of Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the waiting takes its own toll.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

44\. Hours of Waiting

“You know, Fíli, I honestly think that the last four days have been worse than the rest of the trip combined.” 

Thorin’s head snapped around at the quiet assertion from his younger nephew, seated on the stone floor with his back to a now cloth draped stone tomb. His brother was next to him, gaping for a long moment as his mind undoubtedly struggled to process what his sibling had just stated so blandly. Kíli often spoke before he completely thought through what he was saying, as with that absurd statement about Gandalf having killed hundreds of dragons in Bag End, but this was a bit extreme even for him. Brown eyes caught blue and the younger prince ducked his head, flushing hard enough to be seen even in the low light as he spoke to the floor.

“I meant- I didn’t mean when Fíli- Or the flood or- Never mind!”

Thorin bit back a chuckle, for a flustered Kíli was even less eloquent than one who did not stop to think, noting that Fíli, and several others within hearing, did not bother concealing their own smiles. The younger prince scooted back until he fully leaned against the covered stone, pulling the remains of his original bow into his lap as his fingers went back to tracing the carving, head down with the messy hair inevitably draped to conceal his face. It was a common poise for the brunette these last few days, and a worrying one for Thorin, given how little sleep he knew his nephew was actually getting each night. 

With a jerk of his head, the king summoned his older nephew to his side as he moved a few feet away, near the wall of the chamber. 

“Has he slept at all the last few nights?”

Fíli grimaced, even as Thorin frowned at the dark shadows rimming the red-shot eyes of his older nephew.

“Neither of us has. Please, Uncle, be forgiving, he’s not thinking all that clearly at the moment.”

The older dwarf nodded, watching the younger prince behind the blonde. Kíli hadn’t seemed to notice his brother’s absence, still maintaining that slightly vacant stare into the darkness, only his hands moving.

“Has he spoken to you of what plagues him so?”

“No.” The older prince’s entire body seemed to droop at that, posture reflecting his emotions. “Truthfully, I haven’t pushed him, either. This place…”

With a shake, Fíli drew himself away from the wall he’d slumped against, as if to physically push space between himself and his cares, and moved past Thorin to head for where his mother hovered at the back of the cavern. Dis was bent over the small fire that they could only briefly light once a day or the smoke could not only choke them, but easily reveal their presence to the cult. Seeing the older prince start talking quietly with his mother, Thorin allowed his worries for that one to momentarily slip to the back of his mind and girded himself to deal with the younger one instead. 

Carefully, he lowered himself to take the place so recently vacated by Fíli, swallowing his first instinct to harsh words and demands as he took in exactly what Kíli was tracing on the bow. The archer’s hands were stroking the battered wood gently, but not where the swirls and flourishes had been so painstakingly carved by the hands of his relatives, including Thorin himself. No, Kíli was fingering the barely seen dark spots that marked the stain of old blood upon the wood, some of it undoubtedly his own. Reaching out, Thorin stilled the hands by placing his own over them, which finally drew his sister-son’s unhappy gaze up to him.

“I’m fine, Thorin. Just tired of waiting.”

The flicker of eyes glancing nervously at anything but the older dwarf instantly betrayed the lie, shadows haunting the brown orbs deep inside. As Thorin studied him, his gut clenched, suddenly realizing what must have occurred that so troubled the young prince.

“You remember the battle, Kíli.”

It was not a question, though even if it had been, the paling and grimace that crossed the features of the other dwarf would’ve been answer enough.

“Yes.” The hands twitched under his and Thorin released his hold. “No. I don’t know, maybe?”

“That sounds a mite bit unclear, lad.”

Thorin’s face darkened as Glóin invited himself to sit upon the prince’s other side, though his cousin didn’t seem phased in the least at the royal displeasure. Surprisingly enough, he saw Kíli actually relax slightly at the other’s presence, the scent of Glóin’s pipe-weed filling the air and dispelling some of the cloyingly sweet odor of funerary herbs that still lingered even now. The older dwarf hadn’t been in the most pleasant of moods for the last few days, stuck in the bottom of the mountain with his wife and daughters unknowingly going about their lives wondering when their husband and father would return to them. 

Nor had his son been much comfort, as Gimli was, if anything, even more anxious to see his pledged and reassure himself that she would truly consent to moving south with him. They had heard so many of the endless ‘what if’s’ and ‘maybe I shouldn’t’s’ that the warrior had been banished to the far side of the cavern, where he and his pipe sulked by themselves. 

Unfortunately, the separation from loved ones was necessary, and equally vexing upon Dis and Bofur, the other two married members of the company, for none could know that they had returned until dawn fell upon the mountain tomorrow. Durin’s Day. Now, Kíli addressed his hesitant remarks to the white bearded dwarf, unwilling or unable to meet the eyes of his uncle.

“I’m not sure what’s memory and what is my mind filling in with what I’ve been told.”

The prince did not pull away when Glóin gently repeated Thorin’s actions of earlier, and then went a step farther, pulling the mistreated remnants of the weapon from the other’s hands.

“Why don’t you tell us, and perhaps Thorin and I can help you sort it out, then? Both of us have been in too many battles ourselves to be shocked at anything you say, lad, nor will we think the less of you.”

A sidelong look at the older dwarf stated Kili’s disbelief and Glóin sighed, glancing away for a moment to locate his own son in the gloom.

“None of us were unaffected by what we went through, Kíli. It was almost forty years before I consented to allowing Gimli to go out on patrols, well after he was an adult dwarf in his own right. And Ori… Did you not wonder what would cause a scholar to join a colony that was sure to be fighting orcs and goblins almost constantly? Or what made him come with the company on the quest for Erebor in the first place? Remember what he used as his so-called weapon?”

“That stupid sling-shot.” Kili’s features gained hints of life as his voice rose from the monotone he’d been using, brow knit in thought as he considered the youngest member of their old company. “I’d not thought about it, but he had less of a place there than Fíli and I. We’d at least been trained in weapons since we were old enough to hoist them, all those slung rocks did was make things madder at him; especially when he got the troll in the eye. Why did he come, then? I’d have thought Dori would insist he stay safe back in the Blue Mountains.”

Glóin snorted, rolling his eyes in a common expression when their odd trio of distant cousins was brought up, not that he’d readily admit the relationship anyway. Out of the three, Glóin actually tended to relate best to Nori, perhaps because merchants were only a legitimate form of thief! Thorin forced that thought firmly from his mind lest he be tempted to blurt it out the next time his merchant cousin managed to irritate him.

“Nori had gotten himself in trouble and needed to leave the mountains for a while, and Dori wasn’t about to let young Ori out of his sight even as he tried to watch over Nori, no matter how dangerous the quest was likely to be, so it was all three or none. After we retook Erebor, he grew even worse, so by the time Balin decided to try for Moria again, Ori was so fed up with the entire situation that he told Dori he was leaving and neither of his brothers were welcome to follow. I thought we would lose the old fusspot to heart failure on the spot, he grew so pale, but he actually let Ori go finally, just as I allowed Gimli to step forward at that council, despite Gandalf and Thranduil’s son both being mixed up in the whole thing. We cannot always protect family, no matter how hard we try.”

Kíli nodded, head dropping back to rest against the fabric, eyes dark with memories.

“I wasn’t ready for battle, no matter what I thought at the time. Every time I try to sleep lately, I hear the screams, see the blood, and I’m terrified that something I did – or wasn’t good enough to do- got my brother and Thorin killed. I distracted them, both have said as much.”

Kíli had turned fully to his cousin, presenting the back of his head to his uncle as if he’d forgotten the other dwarf was there. Nor was it lost upon Thorin that while Fíli was called by a familial title, his own had disappeared from Kili’s vocabulary after the revelation in the forest, nor was his nephew all that comfortable around him. Even now, he would not turn to look at him, addressing Glóin exclusively since the older dwarf had joined them. Sighing, he spoke to the back of his nephew’s head.

“As you would’ve been distracted by the sight of one of us falling. It was a natural reaction, Kíli, and certainly nothing you had control over.”

“Thorin’s right, cousin.” Gimli’s tone was full of gruff affection as he sat down beside his father and buffeted Kíli on one shoulder. “You cannot help worrying for others in such a situation. Why do you think Legolas and I began our game, truly? The call of the score lets us each know that the other isn’t in trouble.” The red beard split into a fierce grin. “Besides, I would not be a true dwarf were I to suffer an elf to beat me at such a thing!”

A breathy ‘ha’ rewarded Gimli’s efforts, a weak response as Kíli blinked himself tiredly back into semi-alertness. Thorin grunted in displeasure at that, resting a hand upon his nephew’s arm as he allowed his eyes to warm, showing the pride and concern he felt for the other even though Kíli still would not look at him.

“You need sleep, Kíli.”

That finally received a glance stolen from between strands of hair as the prince’s head bobbed once more.

“I know. Fíli is asking Mother to prepare us both sleeping draughts now, though neither of us is all that comfortable with the thought. I dread the dreams.”

“Tell us, then, lad, don’t keep it locked inside you!” Glóin insisted, Gimli nodding his agreement with his father fiercely and not showing the least embarrassment at the elder’s next words. “I’ve spent more than one night on this journey listening to Gimli speak of what he’s been through, even late into the morning hours when necessary.”

“I’m so tired right now; I doubt I’d make much sense, Glóin. Thorin could find his way through the Shire faster than I could order my thoughts today.”

Glóin’s fist came to his mouth hard as Thorin snorted in exasperation, reminding himself firmly that the young fool was now not only flustered and not censoring his words, but also exhausted! Had he known how many times that simple act of becoming turned around in the dark would be thrown back in his face, he’d never have admitted to it. In his own defense, the paths around that small country were so much like a spider’s web that it was no wonder few other races bothered with them! Fíli was a shadow suddenly standing over them, two steaming cups to hand, as Thorin stood with his cousin, shaking his head at the older prince.

“Both of you get some rest; we need you coherent tomorrow, not making fools of yourselves every time you open your mouths.”

It was a bit harsh, but Fíli just shrugged, allowing his uncle’s temper to roll over him as he always did as Thorin shook his head in self-recrimination.

“That was uncalled for, Fíli. I fear it is not only the two of you that this waiting and this place affect.”

Blue eyes flitted to the empty tomb his brother leaned against as the blonde swallowed hard, unease easy to read, but the prince said nothing, simply handing Kíli one of the mugs before dropping down next to him. Both princes downed the concoction quickly, and then lay down, Fíli’s hand resting casually upon his brother’s arm as if needing the extra reassurance of touch. Either Dis had made the brew especially strong, or both were truly upon the edge of exhaustion, because they dropped into sleep within moments, Thorin still standing there, watching. As his nephews went still and limp, he could not tear his gaze from them, a shudder of memory shaking his frame as he vaguely recalled seeing their equally limp forms being cleaned and prepared for burial. 

A soft hand touching his arm drew the king back to the present before threatening tears could actually spill and he turned, not surprised to find his sister beside him. In her arms, she hugged two blankets to her so hard that her arms trembled as tears traced down her cheeks before she managed to collect herself, handing him one of the pieces of wool. He almost dropped the thing in surprise as he registered the heat emanating from the cloth, Dis giving a shaky smile.

“I had them over the fire. I don’t want either of them taking a chill, now, after all we’ve been through.”

The statement was a bit defensive, but Thorin just shook his head, kneeling to spread the material over both sleepers, his sister layering hers on top of that. One hand reached out to gently caress her sons’ faces before smoothing back some of Kili’s wild hair and pulling Fíli’s mustache braid back from being in danger of being inhaled.

“They still look so young… But then I see the weight of all that they’ve been through in their eyes and I know that I mustn’t…”

“They will always be your sons, Dis.” Thorin’s reassurance eased at least some of the sorrow written into the lines of her sweet face. “You raised them well, worthy heirs of Durin.” 

The king settled to the floor, sitting much as Kíli had earlier, back to the stone, and opened his arms, inviting his sister to lean against him. With a bright twinkle at last lighting the blue eyes, the grey haired lady melted away, replaced in his mind’s eye by the young dwarfling scared by the call of wolves and rumble of distant thunder as they spent the first of so many nights in exile under the stars, no tents even to shelter weary hearts. How often had he held her against him then, head tucked under his chin as they named the star patterns in ancient Khuzdul until both succumbed to slumber? Now, as then, his voice was a soft rumble in her ear, hands rubbing up and down her arms to chase the chill from her skin.

“Tomorrow we will see them as they should have always been, taking their places upon the throne of their forefathers, Princes under the Mountain.”

“I would have them look the part as well, but it was all Nori could do to ‘borrow’ a few items from our apartments. New clothing being made of such quality would surely have been noted.”

He laughed at that, jiggling both their bodies as a smile crinkled the sides of his eyes.

“Do not worry, sister, I had not planned to present your sons in travel stained rags. I have the clothing that was prepared for them to wear at Aragorn’s wedding in my packs. Fíli and Kíli will look every inch the princes that they truly are tomorrow.”

“Good.”  
There was firm satisfaction there, along with a hint of surprise that her brother would have thought of such things, though he had been trained in the importance of appearance the same as she. Her head stirred against his chest as she tilted it back to peer up at him in the gloom.

“And what of you? When will I see Durin take his rightful place as well?”

His arms tightened around her momentarily in surprise, for while he knew he had the support of his nephews and his cousins, Dis had been conspicuous in her silence.

“You would support my return to Khazad-dûm, even with all the grief that place has meant for our family?” Thorin hesitated, but chose to speak frankly, tired of avoiding the issue for fear of her reaction. “You know that if I go to reclaim those halls, I must take an heir with me, and it cannot be Fíli or Kíli.”

He expected several possible responses, including an elbow to the ribs, but he had not anticipated the soft chuckle that shook her sturdy frame. Brow knitting in puzzlement, he cocked his head to the side in an attempt to see her face.

“Dis?”

“Sorry. Therin is much like you, with the same stubbornness, and the Durin temper, as Bilbo wrote to remind me more than once. Our ancient halls may have survived fires, floods, pitched battle, and a Balrog, but I am not so sure they will withstand the two of you when you inevitably clash!”

Thorin sighed, recalling some of the rows he’d had with his father before the older dwarf had disappeared. He knew he had a temper, and often was as guilty as Kíli of snapping out biting comments before he thought through the consequences, but it was somewhat disconcerting to be told so to one’s face. He wasn’t quite sure what her words portended, either, so he simply kept silent, and was rewarded several minutes later by her own heavy exhalation of breath.

“I do not mean that Therin should not go with you, brother. He was raised knowing he might one day be called upon to assume the throne, and I would not deny him that path should he choose it. I only ask that you remember how infuriated you would become when Father refused to listen, and a promise that you will do what you can to keep him safe.”

Closing his eyes, Thorin send a silent prayer to Mahal in thanks for his sister’s words. She’d changed, grown, so much in the time he was gone, and he knew that it was at least partly the result of the grief he’d brought to her door, yet she still showed the gentle generosity that had so marked the young princess. There was none of the unstable wildness he’d witnessed in Gondor now, and he could only ascribe those earlier reactions to the sheer shock of finding her sons and brother alive once more, a fleeting aberration in her behavior that would hopefully never return.

“You have my word, sister, on both those things.”


	45. Day of Reckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a traitor is confronted at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

45\. Day of Reckoning

The darkness had not fled the sky over the mountain when their little group slipped out of the cracked door of the tomb, as if a line of wraiths returning to the land of the living. Each dwarf was muffled in a heavy, dark colored cloak, hoods pulled up to further shadow faces already hidden by the darkened halls. Thorin fought to keep nerves under control, hand flexing constantly, longing for the hilt of the great blade upon his back and one of the traitors before him to receive their long awaited justice. So very long had he dreamed and planned, second-guessing the confrontation, picking it apart night after night by the campfire with Dwalin, Glóin, Bofur, Fíli and Kíli, to know that it would finally occur in a matter of hours… 

The king walked in the middle of their little group, his nephews immediately in front of him with Nori, Gimli and Dwalin leading the way. Behind was Dis, her presence a whiff of light perfume and the soft swish of silk, then the heavy tread and metallic clink of armor signaling Bofur and Glóin at the rear. Young Kifir had been smuggled out before them, Nast seeing the dwarfling safely to his parents’ apartments, where both of them would stay until signaled that the confrontation had ended. 

The corridors were silent, only the whispers of their passing disturbing the heavy tension of a mountain waiting…

The line was brought to a brief halt at the vast golden doors to the Hall of the King, another dwarf that Thorin did not recognize speaking softly with Nori for a moment before disappearing back into the shadows. The ex-thief had proven most resourceful, using the excuse of Thorin Stronghelm’s death to seal the great hall back when they were still in Gondor, thus ensuring that no traps awaited the group this morning – except the one planned by them, of course. Now, there was a musty smell to the air that brushed Thorin’s face as he at last stepped foot once more between the giant statues, only the dim light of Nori’s lantern piercing the darkness to fall upon the bulky throne, shrouded with black to signify the loss dealt to the realm. It felt different this time, making the king release a long breath he’d held against setting foot here once more. The memories of his gold sickness, raging at any who dared to question him, hung in the air about him like so many specters, whispering of his failings and tempting, muttering…

Why should he allow two young whelps who’d faced but one battle to sit upon his throne? Who were they, who’d not even managed to survive, to think themselves worthy of mighty Thrór’s place? His… He’d won it, he’d led them through the wilderness, past doubting dwarves, hungry trolls, malevolent old adversaries, greedy goblins, spiders, and simpering elves, all to triumph where so many said it impossible! What truer measure of the strength and fitness of Durin’s heir was needed? His gold… his… precious…

With a shock that tingled painfully upon his nerves, such whispers were ripped away and he looked fully into the brown eyes of his younger sister-son, hand marked with the Arkenstone gripping his in a tight squeeze. There was power dancing there, and certain knowledge of what his uncle faced, yet also such love… What had he done to earn such forgiveness and trust? Almost hesitant, Thorin brought his free hand up to allow the backs of his fingers to gently brush Kili’s cheek. 

_“Here, before you now, are the true treasures of our race, our greatest masterpieces, a lifetime of forging spent upon each one. Never forget that, my son, and you will rule well.”_

_Durin V sighed as he turned to his son, seeing the scorn there as they gazed out into the hall filled with dwarflings deep in their lessons. He feared for this one, already re-named Durin VI by signs shown so astonishingly not long ago. Regin had never been intended as the heir, being the younger of Durin’s twin boys, but Mahal had seen fit to alter that rather dramatically…not to mention publically. That had been most unfortunate, thrusting the mantle upon unready shoulders instead of allowing Durin to quietly mold the younger prince to his new duties without the intense scrutiny._

_Worse yet, the sheer power of his new position had gone straight to the boy’s head, especially after Durin’s council had demanded a public ceremony marking the change in crown prince, where only one symbolic gesture would do- the passing of the mightiest of the Seven from father to son. It was the first time in their history that the ring had been so openly displayed, but there had been no way to refuse, either. Now, the boy was too caught up in glory and gold to give a thought to the people that they ruled._

_‘Boy’ and ‘lad’, was that what he’d been calling his son? Regin would be swearing and raging at his father had he known, being a dwarf grown with a young son of his own, but Durin stood behind the choice of words. If the lad wanted to act like a dwarfling with a new toy, lording it over all the others, then by Mahal, he would be treated as such! Durin was healthy and planning to rule for quite some time yet; certainly long enough to take this spoiled brat and break his fantasies, replacing them with the proper respect for the responsibility he now bore!_

_It was even more imperative now, with two Durins, born back to back in the family, for that was not a portent for peace, he knew. Of all by that name, only he had ruled the ancient halls without being forced to rely upon strength of arms, a luxury dearly bought by his thrice-great grandfather, Durin IV. It had taken almost sixteen hundred years for the dwarves of Khazad-dûm to recover in numbers to where they now were, finally re-opening the last of the halls to be inhabited once more, a triumph that tasted bitter in his mouth as he looked into the eyes of his heir._

_Whispers within told of a sickness, a taint, upon their line, a shadow coming to claim all that he had rebuilt, and last night his cousin and Seer swore that it dwelt within the soul of his son. The Grey Wizard had spoken warnings in his ear when they met in Lothlorien only weeks ago, a wanderer appearing out of the wilds with the strength and wisdom of the ancients in his eyes; unknown, and yet, Durin’s soul whispered that it would be unwise to dismiss this stranger whom the Lady of the Golden Wood had greeted with open arms._

_Beside him, his arrogant successor was gesturing widely as they walked, voice and imagination both caught by the wealth that they pulled from the earth, speaking scornfully of the restrictions placed by his father upon the mines’ depths. Sunlight from an upper casement trickled down to glint off the ring upon the youth’s hand and Durin’s breath caught. Surely not! Had not that ring been given unto them by the hand of Celembrimbor himself, never to have been touched by Sauron? Had the Deceiver found a way to corrupt even that? Anger burned deep, fueling a determination to end this charade, to ensure the future of his people!_

_“I will allow you to do all that you wish, my son, should you do but one thing for me.”_

_It was foolhardy, he knew, yet he could not stop the words that came from his mouth any more then he could dam up the flow of the gate spring itself. Durin VI had frozen, hands in the air, as his father’s words penetrated his mind. Eyes narrowed, the other frowned, slowly taking a wary step back from his sire._

_“What?”_

_“Give me the Ring of Power.”_

_A hand held out, empty, pleading, the destiny of a race held there though no other could perceive it. Too late, Durin V took note of the absence of any other dwarves, the stone halls closing in with an unnatural feel of malevolence as the very air refused to be drawn in, stifling any sound the king might have sought to make. A hand, hard and cold, wrapped around his wrist, pulling with a strength greater than any Khazad possessed, flinging the older dwarf as though he were nothing more than a piece of waste rock to be carelessly discarded from the mine. Flailing, he could only hear his own internal wail of despair mix with the enraged roar of his son as hands seeking to save him grasped empty air._

_His heart mourned for all that he could see, for his death did not rush toward him with the grey stone, but the doom of his people. His last thoughts as he looked to the floor of the lower hall were a prayer to Mahal to guide and protect when he could not, leaving his heart full of joy, not pain, when it ceased to beat, the blue eyes of the one who would return the dwarves of Durin to peace and plenty looking into his own from an undreamt of future._

Thorin gasped as he hastily stepped back, eyes wide as he took in his surroundings and the worried faces of his kin. Was this, then, the truth behind centuries of suffering inflicted upon his people? Hands grasping and steadying him were the only things that kept him from the fate of his ancestor as the full import of what he’d remembered slammed into him with an almost physical blow. The vision of the Balrog had not been a portent of what was to come, but a warning that the gold sickness, the taint, had not yet been fully banished from his soul! 

The ring held by the Line of Durin had been as insidiously deadly as all the others, planting the false assurances of its own purity within each bearer to protect itself even as the fatal illness it carried worked deeper into their souls, enhancing the lust for gold. True, Thorin himself had never possessed the thing, but in the end, it had not mattered, as he bore the souls of four other Durins who had been so touched, leaving an open door for the presence of the One to work upon him, a curse that still threatened to crush all he’d worked for. The power of this simple revelation doubled him over in momentary physical agony as he gave voice to the mourning of a long ago loss, echoed in his own full knowledge of his fall to the same shadow. Voices babbled about him, unheeded, until one word became clear, allowing him to latch onto it and pull himself up from the threatening abyss, banishing the last of the illness from his soul. 

“Uncle!”

“K-kili. Fíli.”

For the first time in his life, Thorin gave no thought to royal dignity or whether his actions might be misconstrued by those watching, pulling his two nephews, the sons of his heart, into a bone-crushing embrace. He felt them freeze in momentary startlement at the unusual action before arms went around him in return, and the three stood unheeding for a long moment before the throne of Erebor. Finally leaning back, he rested one powerful hand on the back of each head, noting that somewhere their hoods had been pushed aside, and met the slightly confused gazes with his own, completely unmasked.

“I am sorry.”

The words themselves were meaningless, inadequate to all that he wanted to tell them, but they were the only ones that he had the strength to utter, and it seemed enough. Kili’s brilliant smile, so rare these days, lit the gloom as Fíli’s blue eyes picked up the sparkle, magnifying it to shed light upon the last of the gold sickness haunting Thorin’s soul. With a wide smile of his own, pride gleaming in his eyes, he turned the two around and shoved them ahead of him toward the throne, the last of his own doubts and fears vanishing into the deep below.

It took only moments for them to sort themselves out, Fíli taking his place before the throne, flanked by Dwalin and Glóin, as Gimli and Bofur moved to the side with Dis. Thorin placed himself in the shadows to the left and slightly behind the throne, a suddenly visibly nervous Kíli beside him. Instead of harsh words, however, Thorin merely reached out, one hand resting upon his nephew’s shoulder as he gave it a slight squeeze, capturing Kili’s eyes with his own and holding them until the other unconsciously began mimicking his uncle’s slow breathing pattern, tension melting from him. 

In less than an hour, the first light of Durin’s Day would touch upon the throne from the window high above in the mountain’s snowy eastern face, reflected down by carefully placed mirrors, and the hall doors would be thrown open to signify the return of a Lord to the mountain. That would be when the cult planned to strike, counting on the absence of the princes to seize power, at least temporarily, and find the hidden cache. Only they would enter to find the throne already occupied and the cache in the hands of another! Thorin felt his lips stretching in a predatory smile of anticipa-

*Boom!*

The crash of the doors being thrust open broke the last moments of stillness in the dark and Thorin tensed, hand seeking the hilt of his sword as he swore softly. The Death Warriors were early; had Eír been given enough time to place his archers upon the hidden niches on the great statues or were they on their own? Stomach knotting, he stepped forward, desperation making the king reckless in his actions, yet knowing that if they did not stall now, they may yet lose the mountain. The original plan called for the conspirators to be allowed to assume their critical positions without interference so that the cult would not know that they had been discovered before those in the throne room could confront the leaders, but none had thought that they would move so soon! 

“Who dares to break the sanctity of the Hall of the King before the first light of dawn?”

With the roar and the billowing black cloak trailing behind him, Thorin knew that he made an imposing figure, bearing down on the five dwarves who had entered like an avenging demon. Two of them immediately turned to flee, but the other three stood their ground, Flár opening his arms wide as if in shocked welcome, a smile as false as pyrite lighting his face.

“Thorin! I heard voices from within and feared the worst. None had told me that you had returned safely.” The traitor’s eyes tracked to the throne, and Thorin saw a glint of satisfaction at the sight of the blonde prince standing by himself. “And Prince Fíli, of course.”

The king allowed none of the menace to leave his expression, glowering at the other, as was no doubt expected. Flár was a few years younger than Dwalin and Thorin, and a member of one of the royal houses of the Iron Hills, which meant they had been forced to put up with his presence at many a meeting prior to the fall of the mountain. To say that the three did not have good relations with one another would be a vast understatement, so there was no need of pretended warmth upon the part of Thorin.

“We did not wish to declare our presence as there appears to be traitors within Erebor, or have you not taken note of what occurred in the Iron Hills? I am certain that none of the failings in security were due to you, but rather ill luck and unfortunate judgment in who was trusted in your absence.”

If Flár wished to play this out, he was more than willing to contribute, though the way the traitor’s cousins, Erfídi and Klár, kept attempting to discretely glance at the tops of the statues around them was somewhat unnerving. Should one of the cult manage to take such a position with a bow, they might yet lose their lives along with the kingdom. Thorin did allow a slight, grim smile to play at his lips as the Warmaster of the Iron Hills visibly fumed at the king’s verbal jabs. He was not one to usually tolerate such word fights, but this one was proving oddly satisfying!

“Indeed. I warned Dain and Thorin Stronghelm against Oain and Fain, but they were kin to them and would hear no ill word spoken. Should I meet up with either one again, I will deal with them.”

“There is no need.” 

Thorin allowed satisfaction to play across his features as he retrieved a well-traveled item from within his cloak. One-handed, he flung the pieces to the stone floor, where they rang out in a metallic clatter, coming to rest at the other’s feet. Bending over, Flár scooped them up only to blanch slightly at the sight, for in his hand was the blood stained pieces of Oain’s dagger, complete with his personal seal, and it was not broken, but deliberately chiseled apart. 

_“Blood spilled in payment for blood ripped away, oaths broken as the blade, nameless he chose to betray his own, and nameless he will remain forever more, written from the scrolls of clan and Khazad. So say I, Fíli, Prince of Durin, warrior tried and true upon the field of battle, shorn of life and returned to lead our people. Do any cast my words as false?”_

From behind him came the ancient Khuzdul words, Fíli’s tone fierce and proud, daring any to contradict him, casting Oain out of their entire race. It meant that not only would his name be taken from the family lines, but that no child of the Khazad would ever again bear the name, and any who did now would change it lest the traitor’s besmirched honor corrupt them as well. It was not something lightly done, only used a handful of times since the fall of Moria, but Thorin would not fault his nephew for invoking it now. That Kíli did not die from the poison was of no matter, for intent to slay one of royal blood was enough. 

There was a stir from behind the Warmaster, as if one of the two meant to object, the other elbowing his brother in the ribs to silence him. As Flár gaped at Fíli for a long moment, there was a low growl followed by murmurs of agreement from those flanking their prince, rattling the traitor so much that he was only able to regain his composure by clenching his fist around the broken blade until it started to bleed, no doubt visibly pleasing Dwalin. Only then did the traitor turn back to the king, eyes blazing in suppressed anger.

“I had not realized the extent to which his depravity reached, though I must say that I was truly shaken to hear of the second death of young Prince Kíli. I assume that Oa- the nameless one was in some way directly responsible?”

Yes, that one was shaken by Kili’s poisoning, but only because it meant one of the princes was still alive!

“He led the ambush.”

He willingly conceded that, knowing there was no reason to conceal it now.

“Will Fíli than take the throne alone?”

Thorin looked the other straight in the eye and told the exact truth.

“No, Fíli will not take the throne alone.”

There was a flicker of triumph at that, the two behind their cousin visibly smug as they relaxed just slightly. Thorin regarded them narrowly, sadistically amused to see the bandages peeking out of the sleeve of Erfídi’s armor and the way Klár shifted constantly to keep his weight off of his left leg. He was about to comment on the misfortunes inherent in passing through Mirkwood, not to mention playing with wolves, when the door to the hall was flung open once more and what he saw made his blood run cold.

Stumbling toward them was a young dwarf with dark hair and the vivid blue eyes of Durin, so alike to Thorin himself that there could be no doubt of his identity, and behind him, with a fist almost pulling out hair and a dagger to his throat was Nast.


	46. Day of Kings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is an ending... maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

46\. Day of Kings

The dwarf guard whom they’d trusted with their lives from Gondor had a smug smile upon his face as he jerked Prince Therin to a halt, provoking a small cry of pain from the young one. Behind him, Thorin heard a scuffle, but he dared not look, hoping that one of the others had been able to successfully restrain Dis before she could put herself into danger. This time, Thorin’s rage towered so high that even Flár flinched back from him slightly, one boot scraping upon the floor as he stopped himself from bowling over his cousins.

“What is the meaning of this?!”

The bellow echoed throughout the cavernous hall, sound bouncing back until it seemed that a hundred dwarves could be heard instead of one, growing fainter with every repetition. Nast, to his credit, did not so much as flinch, instead having the temerity to grin and slowly wink at the king he’d just played for a fool. Flár, meanwhile, had recovered remarkably fast, turning back to those before the throne with a condescending smirk.

“You did not truly think us as blind as to allow the party to leave without one of our own among them, did you? What if that idiot Glóin, or that muscle-brained creature Dain was forced to name Warmaster had the wits to try making an alliance with the fools of Gondor? We worked too long and hard to lose all that we’d hoped now!” Eyes sparkling with malice, he focused past Thorin to Dwalin. “You know, I do believe that’s why all your hair fell out. A head made of rock bound with muscle so empty that you did not even understand the consequences of using it as a battering ram!” 

The muffled snarl from behind did not bode well for Flár’s continued survival, as no doubt Dwalin now had both axes gripped in mighty hands, rage and death in his eyes. As it was, the large warrior would have to be content with whatever was left after Thorin was through! The traitor’s head tilted up in arrogance, so confident of his own position that he looked Thorin dead in the eye as he addressed the newest addition to their little gathering, cousins leering behind him.

“It is done, then? The mountain is ours?”

With a low growl of his own at the traitor’s question, Fíli stepped to his uncle’s side, twin swords flashing in the light of the lantern held by Klár as Nast slowly eased his hold upon Therin’s hair.

“Aye, the mountain is secure, my lord.”

Nast’s solemn assurance was soft… and directed not at Flár, but at Fíli, the guard favoring the prince with another wink and slight smirk. Erfídi, however, had turned just in time to catch part of the expression, a shout of betrayal turning quickly into one of pain as one of Therin’s supposedly tied hands lashed out, dagger glittering momentarily in the light before sinking to the hilt in the other dwarf’s shoulder. Nast’s own dagger hit the floor with a clatter as he changed places with his former captive, ax drawn to protect the youngest prince as the other threw off his cloak, revealing the short horseman’s bow he’d concealed upon his back. The young prince’s smile was an eerie echo of another dwarf who’d stood in Erebor’s corridors long ago, eager to join his older brother in the hunt even as Thorin tried to dissuade the tag-along. 

“What did you say to me the other day, Klár?” Therin sighted along a steel tipped arrow, eyebrow raised at his target in bemusement even as the blue eyes turned to ice. “That I should just give up before I embarrass myself by missing? That I would never be the archer the stories claim my brother was? Somehow I doubt even I can miss at this range!”

Thorin had to bite back a chuckle at that, able to see exactly what Dis may have meant by he and her youngest being too much alike! To his right, the figure of Fíli, resplendent in rich gold and red, shook his head even as one in equally fine blue and silver appeared upon Thorin’s other side. This had the instantly gratifying effect of making Flár turn red with rage, head whipping around toward Nast.

“You assured us that the prince was dead!”

“I lied.”

Kili’s laugh filled the chamber at Nast’s dry two word statement, Fíli’s soft chuckle joining in moments later, though Thorin contented himself with shaking his head at the traitors as if chiding three foolish dwarflings.

“Next time, be more careful in whom you approach. Not all dwarves are as stupid and greedy as you, Flár. Loyalty, honor, a willing heart…those who answered my call had all of these…and so do their children.”

_Lothlorien_

_The late afternoon sun warmed the small clearing outside the tent given to the four royals for their use, making it ideal for a sleeping dwarf covered in only a light blanket. Just enough breeze stirred the leaves, as well, keeping the bugs clear of them without threatening a chill. Thorin could only shake his head in wonder at the perfection the elves had created here, even while some part of him noted that it was too perfect, too pristine for dwarves to ever be comfortable in. Not to mention above ground._

_For now, though, he would keep such words to himself, grateful only for the rest this was allowing both Fíli and Kíli, the latter once more asleep against the cushions between his brother and uncle. Dis had finally been persuaded to leave them only minutes ago, giving in to the lure of a hot bath and clean clothing. The two dwarves still awake had lapsed into silence, marveling once again at the mere presence of the third, who’d been all but dead two days before, so the soft clearing of a throat startled them both. Looking up, Thorin nodded a greeting to the one remaining guard with them, Nast. Taking that as acceptance of his presence, the dwarf stepped boldly up to his monarch, greeting them as he sat down._

_“Lord Thorin, Prince Fíli, I apologize for disturbing you, but I must speak with you confidentially.”_

_The king instantly stiffened, wishing he’d brought his sword out of the tent with him, for there was nothing of the diffident young guard nervous in the presence of royalty about this one now. This dwarf was calm, eyes warily sweeping the perimeter of the clearing, alert to the slightest change in his surroundings, a manner strongly reminiscent of another dwarf Thorin had once known._

_“You may speak openly here, Nast.”_

_“Thank you.” The other finally betrayed a hint of nervousness, forcing himself to inhale deeply before continuing. “I do not know if you are aware of who I am. I mean-“_

_“I know what you mean.” Thorin smiled, relaxing, as the pieces to the puzzle became clear. “You are Nori’s pledge-son.”_

_Fíli’s sharp inhale of surprise made Nast smile slightly even as he relaxed again._

_“Exactly. I had not known Dwalin mentioned it, my lord.”_

_“He didn’t.” Thorin stated bluntly then relented, explaining. “I met your mother when Nori approached me about being included in the company setting out for Erebor. He knew that with his reputation around Ered Luin, I would not accept him without assurances as to his reasons for joining. The journey would be difficult enough without adding one who could not be trusted to the party, no matter how skilled he was. I witnessed their pledge to marry when he returned myself, and, of course, his acceptance of you as his son, no matter the lack of blood ties.”_

_The young guard’s face reddened slightly, head dropping._

_“My birth-father wasn’t the best of dwarves, my lord. He betrayed Nori to the guard, causing him to be beaten, but even then, Nori would not forsake him. When he was killed in a tavern brawl, Nori was the only dwarf who came to help Mother, even giving us what little he had. By going with you, he was able to ensure a new life for Mother, free of sneering neighbors and old enemies. I don’t think he’d counted on falling in love with her.”_

_“Sounds to me like someone finally succeeded in robbing the thief- of his heart.” Kíli sleepily drawled as he cautiously pushed himself up a bit, peering curiously at Nast. “What’s wrong?”_

_“How do you know something is wrong?”_

_Thorin inquired as his eyes ran over the brunette, noting the returning color to his face and slight twinkle to the eye. Kíli was still far from well, but he was recovering much faster than his uncle had thought possible. The young prince smiled slightly, nodding at Nast._

_“He’s tapping his fingers on his knee. Nori always did the same when he was cornered into admitting something that he didn’t want to.”_

_“He’s right.” Nast flushed, obviously embarrassed at having such a tell caught by the prince. “After the guard assignments for this trip became known, I was contacted by someone wanting information.”_

_“They contacted you? Didn’t they know you were Nori’s son?”_

_Fíli asked incredulously, beating Thorin to the question._

_“No. Father kept our relationship quiet outside of the company after I started helping him gather intelligence, which was when I was a bit younger than Kifir. With Dain ruling Erebor, most dismissed the members of the company from their minds unless some occasion called for recognition of the quest, so it wasn’t hard. For those who have asked, I truthfully reply that my father is dead. It’s worked well, as none of the company has ever completely trusted Dain, so any information would be filtered first through Lord Balin, or Dwalin, later. When I was contacted, I immediately reported it to Father and he told Dwalin, though with no idea of an identity or what they wanted, there was little else to be done. That was why our Warmaster so abruptly decided to be included when he normally has no love of diplomacy.”_

_That observation received a snort from Thorin as the king recalled the many less than flattering observations his old friend had made about such events over the years. No, Dwalin had not been an expected addition, though Thorin had assumed he had conceded to the trip to protect Dis, no doubt opining himself an ill-used martyr the whole way!_

_”Then we were ambushed two days ago.”_

_Thorin noted grimly, raising one eyebrow in demand as the aforementioned warrior joined the group._

_“Aye. When we went back to the battle site, we were being watched, so Nast and I casually had him drift to the far side of the field. I take it you were contacted after all, laddie?”_

_“There was a note waiting for me under one of the bodies, asking for confirmation of one or both princes’ deaths, with instructions as to how to leave a reply. I couldn’t consult with anyone, so I went with the tale of Kíli dead in body and Fíli dead in spirit.”_

_Thorin’s lips twitched in the barest hint of a smile, though it was one filled with malice._

_“Perfect. Should they contact you again…”_

“Drop your weapons, Flár. Erebor will not be yours this or any other day.”

Kili’s stern order broke Thorin from the memory as the traitor sneered, eyes flickering around in a desperate attempt to locate an escape. Evidently seeing nothing promising in the sheer drops beside them, with enemies to the front and back, the Warmaster licked his lips, chuckling half-heartedly as he attempted one more ploy.

“You have no idea what powers you now muck with, Thorin Oakenshield. No idea what’s hidden here. We could-“

It was Fíli’s derisive snort that cut the other off this time, the prince allowing contempt to show plainly upon his features.

“We could what, Flár? Rule the world? Sauron already tried that, maybe you should go ask him how well it turned out. As for what is hidden here… Shall we educate him, little brother, or just leave him to stew in his own ignorance?”

“I do believe that we were taught it was the duty of a good ruler to enlighten his subjects, big brother. Much as I hesitate to claim this one, no one else would extend such charity.”

Thorin stiffened at the cavalier tone, almost reprimanding the two before he stopped himself. Fíli and Kíli were the rulers of Erebor now; it was their place to deal with Flár, not his. Instead, the king watched warily, weapon to hand, as Kíli paced a step closer to the three trapped cult members, one hand holding the Arkenstone out for them to see. Much as the king longed to yank the fool back, he knew why Kíli was assuming such a risk with no weapon to hand- his brother, and not Fíli. 

Therin had allowed himself to become too bold, his inexperience showing as he left himself open to same maneuver the dwarves had planned to use against elven archers, ducking the arrows and knocking aside the bow. Worse, the other two princes and the king were directly on the other side, making them the most likely to be hit by a misfire, and at this range, even the hard mithril they wore would not be enough to prevent blunt force damage from the strike. By keeping the focus of the traitors upon himself, Kíli was not only protecting the boy, as Fíli had always done for him, but trying to prevent Flár from seeing the same opportunity. Oh, the three would die should they try such a thing, but at least one of the royals would most likely also be slain, a success for the cult.

_“Behold the Heart of the Mountain.”_ The formal Khuzdul ran as smoothly from the younger prince’s lips as it had from his brother’s, the chamber echoing it back to them as if the mountain itself added its own voice. Then his marked hand came up, palm uncovered by his normal vambrace, so that the image of the Arkenstone was plainly visible. _“And I, Kíli, Prince of Durin, am its chosen guardian; the secrets of the deep are opening unto me. Witness the first light of Durin’s Day!”_

A single beam of light split the darkness, cunningly placed mirrors refracting it down as it hit the mountain’s peak, signaling the dwarven New Year. It was a sight that Thorin had seen many times as a young prince himself, it never failing to invoke awe, but there was a difference this time. A power sparked around them, crackling over skin and hair, causing Thorin to shudder, breath catching in anticipation. 

In the darkness, something stirred, the grating of stone on stone shattering the air, and slowly, the very throne itself began to slide to the side, allowing the light to illuminate a stair hidden beneath.

Thorin could only shake his head in a daze, unable to fathom the audacity of the cult, hiding their greatest treasures beneath the very seat of their greatest enemy. He had been in this very room upon Durin’s Day two hundred years ago, why had this not been revealed then? Was there some item, a magical trigger, such as the word that opened the doors of Moria? Frowning, the king turned back to the cult in time to scream in rage as Flár took advantage of their momentary distraction.

“NO!”

The traitor’s hand was a blur as he flung something at the younger prince, Kíli holding up an arm instinctively to deflect it. With a sickening crunch, the small throwing ax imbedded itself in flesh and bone, the usual boiled leather armor of the vambrace having been removed to show the sign of the stone. Even as Kíli stepped back, gasping in shock and pain, a metallic clatter from Thorin’s other side signaled Fíli’s deflection of a similar attack upon him, the twang of bowstrings adding to the cacophony, and then…

The mountain shook, sending all flying as they fought to keep from being flung off into the depths of the abyss to either side, a shrill scream the only thing marking Erfídi’s failure. Thorin grabbed onto something solid in front of him, feel telling him that it was Kili’s ankle, as someone else grabbed one of the king’s legs and his other arm was caught in a solid grip. The air around them filled with dust, and Thorin gasped, jerking into an instinctive curl of his body as something massive crashed to the walk next to him, ears ringing from the noise. 

Was the very mountain trying to collapse in upon them?

Just as he contemplated that horrific thought, movement and sound ceased, only faint gasping coughs to be heard from around him. Slowly, the king raised his head, feeling the hand upon his leg release a grip that would surely leave a bruise. Looking down the length of his body, it was only the braids that told him the other was Fíli, golden hair and richly colored clothing now all a uniform gray of dust. Dwalin met his eyes next, one hand still clasped in Thorin’s, while the warrior’s other arm hugged a curled up and quaking Dis to him. Beyond, Gimli was doubled over an ankle while Bofur, Nori and Glóin were sitting in a stunned daze. Nori was the first to recover, shaking his head and calling out hoarsely to those upon the other side of the boulder now residing in the middle of the walkway only inches from Thorin. That, at least, left no doubt as to Flár’s fate.

“Nast? Therin?”

“Here!” Nast’s answer dissolved into a fit of coughing, Therin’s firm, deep bass taking over. “We’re fine. Klár’s dead. Got so many arrows in him he looks like Mother’s pincushion. Where's Flar?”

Dwalin let out a nasty chuckle as he heaved himself to his feet.

"Where do you think? That will be nasty to clean up!"

"Have our captives do it." Nori suggested drily, rolling his eyes at the other dwarf before moving for the far walkway leading from the chambers.

“Kíli?”

Fíli’s hesitant question brought Thorin’s focus back to their last member, whose ankle, he now realized, was still being securely wrapped by his uncle’s hand. The younger prince was still upright, as though rooted to the stone itself, though his only movement was the heaving of his chest as he sucked in dust laden air, not even coughing though it must surely be irritating his throat. That was not enough to have made the older prince hesitant to touch his sibling, however, even if he had to somehow maneuver over the prone Thorin to do so. No, the blonde had been stopped by the swirling sparks of color emanating from Kili’s bare hand and dancing along his skin.

Thorin scrambled up as Fíli pushed past him, one hand reaching out to just short of his brother, and then grasping his uninjured arm swiftly. The moment that the other prince touched his brother, however, the lights abruptly died, Kili’s brown eyes slipping closed as a massive shudder wracked his thin frame and he collapsed. Fíli grunted as his brother’s weight threatened to send him crashing back to the floor, Thorin scrambling to aid his nephews and almost crashing headlong into Bofur and Nori in the process. The other two instantly deferred to their king, who aided his older nephew in laying the other down, surprised to see a hint of brown showing beneath half-closed lids.

“H-hurts, F-fili.”

The stutter was hoarse, but clear, provoking a faint smile from the blonde as he settled his brother’s head in his lap, ruffling the brunette hair in forced playfulness.

“I bet. Unfortunately, you seem to have a target on you lately. We’ve really got to teach you to duck, Kíli.”

“I’ll w-work on that.”

“For now, work on saving your strength.”

Thorin grumbled before his older nephew could respond, carefully straightening the wounded arm as he watched to ensure that the throwing ax imbedded there didn’t shift. The head of the thing was clearly in the bone, but more worrying was the possibility that it had punctured one of the many arteries in the arm and only the blade was preventing Kíli from bleeding to death within minutes.

“Nori’s gone to fetch Senata. She’s not as good as Óin was, but she’s the best healer in the mountain now.” Glóin’s sour humph accompanied that assessment as he knelt down next to Thorin, one stubby finger gently prodding the wound. “This’ll probably need to be cauterized the moment the blade is removed. We’d best move him somewhere more comfortable.”

“The royal apartments are clear, and there’s still a fully stocked healer’s kit from when Stronghelm was injured.”

Thorin barely spared a glance over his shoulder for the youngest prince, regarding his brothers with wide eyes, Nast still a step behind him. A nod sent Bofur scrambling for a litter and more aid while the king, attention still on his injured nephew, absentmindedly growled at the one behind him with the same censure he had always used on Dis’ sons.

“That was quite a risk the two of you took.”

“We didn’t see any other choice!” No, Therin would not be one to take such a reprimand quietly, as Fíli would, or shamefully, as Kíli! “You needed to know the mountain was secure and Flár would have been suspicious of Nast appearing any other way!”

“And you could not have done so from farther away, and with a more appropriate weapon for close fighting than a bow? Your pride and need for revenge could cost your brother his arm if not his life!”

There was some shuffling of feet at that, though not, by the location, from Therin, but from Nast, who ought to have had more sense than the prince. Undoubtedly, that one would be receiving an earful of his own from his father and Dwalin very soon! Looking up in annoyance as he cursed the slowness of healer and litter bearers, the king found himself meeting the eyes of his sister, and knew she read the truth behind his gruff demeanor.

The real failing had not been Therin’s, but Thorin’s, for he never should have allowed the confrontation to continue for so long. They could have taken back the rest of the mountain from within if necessary. Not to mention his lack of foresight in not finding some type of armor to cover Kili’s exposed arm when he removed the bracer to display the Arkenstone mark. A shaky hand plucked at his sleeve, and Thorin reached down to capture it in his own, focus switching back to his wounded nephew. There were tears gathering in those brown eyes, already glassy with pain and shock.

“What is it, Kíli?”

“J-just a child… m-mistake.”

Thorin sighed, catching Fíli’s lips twitching and shot a glare at the older prince even as he bent to reassure the younger.

“I know that, Kíli, but he must learn, just as you did. And you, Fíli, do not encourage him! Next thing I know, you’ll be tripping over each other to throw yourselves in front of one another as living shields! Finally!”

The last exclamation, almost a roar, really, was directed at the small group of dwarves running toward them from the right hand doorway to the throne, one clutching a large leather satchel with the healer’s sigil prominent upon it. Thorin forced himself to stand, dragging Dis with him as he stepped back from his older nephews, Fíli’s hand taking over the gentle pressure his uncle had been exerting on the cloth wadded carefully around the weapon in Kili’s arm. Dis was shaking, but only now did she give in to her distress, pulling Therin close to her with one arm even as she willingly accepted Thorin’s own embrace. 

The healer, a younger dwarf that Thorin vaguely remembered tearing through the halls of Ered Luin with Gimli after Fíli and Kíli had thrown themselves into training for the quest, wasted no time with indecision, issuing crisp orders that had the prince on a litter and being carefully but swiftly carried through abruptly emptied corridors. She didn’t bother trying to ban Fíli from his brother’s side, either, taking the blonde’s presence as a given and using his hands as an extension of her own. The door to the bedchamber, however, was very firmly shut in the face of the king and his sister, only Glóin allowed in with the princes. It was not a rejection that Thorin was used to, a fist planted firmly into the stone wall and a menacing growl making that abundantly clear.

“She’s the best we have, Thorin. Óin trained her himself before he left with Balin.”

The soft words brought the king around to face his marriage-brother, shoulders slumping. When Vili and his daughter, Lis, had entered the outer sitting room they now occupied, Thorin didn’t know, but he was glad to see them. If nothing else, it meant that Dis had the support of someone besides her often prickly brother, while Lis was wrapped in Gimli’s arms, her twin standing nearby looking torn between guilt at his failure and disgust at the rather sappy words being exchanged between his sister and soon to be marriage-brother. 

Seeing the other members of his family being taken care of, Thorin turned to the others in the room, noting that a dwarf with the same forked beard and premature grey once sported by Balin had joined Dwalin, Bofur, Nori, Dori, and Bifur. With one last scowl at the barred door to the sick room, the king turned to them, accepting the nods and bows at his approach.

“You would be Nalin?” Dwalin’s son nodded a silent acknowledgment, an air of wisdom beyond his years hovering over him as it had once graced his uncle. No wonder one so young would be counted upon those fit to rule the realm in the absence of the monarch! “Erebor is truly secure? Casualties?”

“We are secure, Lord Thorin, though the cult set off a collapse in the lower diamond mine in a futile attempt to escape using the gate-stream. We have seven dead and twenty-seven injured, including the prince, on our side, thirty-one dead and six captured of the cult. Oh, and the four fools we presume drowned. I sent guards to ensure the bodies were found and disposed of before someone in Dale receives a rude surprise.”

“So many?” Thorin did not hide the pain at the knowledge. “How many were of the Longbeards?”

“Two besides the three in the throne room, both of noble families from the Iron Hills, not the Exiles. The rest are a mix of Blacklock and Ironfist according to their clan markings, with one Firebeard and three Broadbeams. One of the captured may be a Stonefoot, but we aren’t certain, she keeps biting any that draw near enough to try looking. No Stiffbeards, though.”

“Are any fit to travel?”

Bifur snorted, letting loose with a derisive spate of ancient Khuzdul before making a dramatically swinging gesture that set Bofur to laughing.

“Aye, according to my cousin, there’s one that should just have a tender head. He made the mistake of interrupting Bombur’s breakfast while trying to flee and my dear brother walloped him with a frying pan.”

“Serves him right for attempting to come between Bombur and food!” Vili snorted, joining them with a pale Dis still tucked against his side. “You plan to send a message somewhere, Thorin?”

“Yes. To Fain. I’ve no doubt he will ensure that it is passed on to the leader of the Death Warriors, though I don’t know if he’ll survive the delivering, much as I would prefer to see to Fain’s punishment myself. To have come so close to accomplishing all that he has, that one cannot suffer fools easily.”

“But Father, surely Flár-“

Therin’s assertion was hesitant, as if he knew that it must be incorrect, but could not restrain himself from voicing the naïve sentiment. For the first time, Thorin faced his youngest nephew fully, allowing the harsh blue to soften ever so slightly as Kili’s admonishment rang once more in his ears. The young dwarf’s own blue eyes were wide, face pale and sweat streaked, while a slight tremble to his hands betrayed the prince’s continued distress. The lad flinched as Thorin rested a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it in reassurance.

“I wish that were so, Therin, but no leader of such cunning would place himself in such a position. No, Flár was a tool for him, important, yes, but also able to be discarded and replaced should it prove necessary. Nor will he be in the Iron Hills, not with that fool, Fain, left in charge. We have won a battle, but the war is yet to come.”


	47. Burglarized!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an old friend comes to call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

47\. Burglarized

“Fíli, for the thousandth time, I am fine! Quite fussing, you’re worse than Mother and Dori combined!”

Thorin bit back a chuckle as the statement rang out down the corridor of the royal wing, though his young companion was not nearly so restrained.

“Do those two never stop bickering, Uncle?”

The king smiled at his newest nephew, shaking his head as they entered the outer suite to the princes’ apartments, heart lightening at the sound of Kili’s voice speaking loudly and without hesitation.

“Not often, Therin, only when there is food or fighting to otherwise occupy them.”

Thorin looked around, eyebrows shooting up as he took note of the latest changes made to what had originally been a council room when his grandfather ruled the mountain. Now, however, it had been refitted with thick carpets and two desks, making it into a joint study for Erebor’s pair of princes. The council had actually not objected to the change after they saw the new, larger, and warmer, room where the great stone table now resided. It was closer to the ground floor, which meant fewer stairs for some of the more elderly councilors, and had the added bonus of adjoining a small kitchen kept stocked with foods and plenty of ale by express order of the princes.

The two did not pause in this outer room, however, passing through to what was once Thrór’s bedchamber and adjoining study. That had been changed by the simple expedient of knocking out the stone wall and replacing it with wood panels that could be easily swung into place, or left open, as they were now, to create one great room. To the right was Fíli’s bedchamber, fairly spare except for a loaded weapons rack upon the wall, a small fireplace and a bookcase mostly filled with treatises on diplomacy and other lands. To the left was Kili’s domain, with the large fireplace that had once been the main feature of Thrór’s study, his weapons rack, and a large bookcase overflowing with both books and samples of everything pulled from Erebor’s mines. 

Fíli and Kíli, standing near the window overlooking the mountain’s great gates, turned as one, identical scowls on their faces as they greeted the newcomers, though their words were a great deal more cordial than the looks they gifted upon one another. It had been almost a month since Durin’s Day, yet the younger of Erebor’s ruling princes still wore one arm in a sling, preventing him from moving a still healing wound. They had been extraordinarily lucky that day, the blade of the small ax only nicking the artery when it could so easily have been severed. As it was, Kíli had once more had a rough time healing, suffering from severe blood loss and a weakened artery that reopened with the slightest of movements that had kept him on bed rest for almost two weeks after the initial wounding. 

Then, just when they had begun to relax last week, allowing the prince to spend time out of bed, an infection had set in and the fever that had so long plagued him returned, almost killing him even as the power of the Arkenstone coursed through the weakened body, supporting it. Senata swore that the prince should not have survived, his body too weakened to fight off the infection, but once again, Kíli had stubbornly pulled through, the Arkenstone unwilling to give up its hold upon its chosen guardian. Now, he was allowed out of bed once more, but the other members of his family were finding it difficult to step back and allow the convalescing dwarf to do what he was able to. 

Not surprisingly, Kíli just ignored any further words they might have exchanged, turning his back to them to return to his preoccupation with the paint on the window ledge while Fíli sighed, joining the other two. 

“I see he’s still in a bad mood.”

“Aye, but at least he’s talking again.” 

Fíli observed, gesturing the other two toward the small table next to the fireplace and away from the glowering brunette. The Arkenstone’s power had saved the prince, but not without consequence, reviving Kili’s trouble with words for a time. He’d become so embarrassed by it that they’d had a hard time getting the dwarf to speak at all, not a problem one usually encountered with the ever-exuberant Kíli. Thorin sighed, wishing once more that they could have had the luxury of staying within Minas Tirith until the younger prince had fully healed instead of subjecting him to the rigors of a journey that tried the constitutions of healthy dwarves. They would never know how many of the problems he now suffered could have been prevented!

“I can’t say I blame him for being grumpy, either. He’s spent most of the last four months either ill, injured, or trying to recover; add on the nightmares I know he still suffers and won’t admit to and all of us watching his every stumble…”

“I’m sorry, Fíli.” 

Therin’s head dropped a bit as he looked shyly at his older brother from a curtain of hair, in an unconscious imitation of his other brother. While the youngest and the eldest of Dis’ progeny had found themselves easily connecting, Therin happily spending any hours he could steal with Fíli coaching him in sword fighting, royal duties, or anything else the blonde cared to teach, it had been rougher going with Kíli. Partly at fault, of course, was the fact that the brunette had been so ill, but Thorin had also seen the guilt carried by Dis’ youngest, who now understood only too well where he’d erred that day in the throne room, and the sacrifice Kíli had made for him.

“I’ve tried to tell him that, too, but he barely speaks to me.”

The blonde smiled, leaning over to place one finger under Therin’s chin, tilting the youngster’s head up as he’d done to Kíli many a time in similar circumstances.

“He doesn’t want your apology, Therin. Kíli isn’t angry with you, he knows you made a mistake and have learned from it.” The oldest prince glanced back over at his brooding sibling, who’s stiff back left no doubt he’d heard their soft words. Fíli sighed, then something in his face shifted, and Thorin saw a determination in his eyes that made him brace for an eruption, though which direction it would come from remained to be seen. “He’s afraid…and maybe a bit jealous.”

“What?”

Therin’s face was screwed up in an almost comical disbelief as he gaped at his brother, and his uncle had to bite the inside of his lip, torn between laughter and sorrow, the expression reminded him of Frérin so strongly. Dis had tried to say the youngest prince looked like Thorin, but the king knew he’d never displayed such free emotion or child-like wonder.

“Kíli doesn’t know how to talk with you, Therin. You’re innocent. You grew up here, with Mother, and safe in the Shire with Bilbo instead of in exile as we did.” 

Fíli’s blue eyes caught Thorin’s then, a sadness to them that had been all too common of late. What childishness the terrors of the road to Erebor and its horrific ending had not burned out of his oldest sister-son, fear for his brother and the weight of the mountain now had. 

“I know you did all you could to protect us, Thorin, you and Mother both, but Kíli and I knew the dangers you wouldn’t speak of. We heard Mother worrying if there would be food to last the winter and saw all the times when you worked until you collapsed just to keep us going… We knew that you needed us to be the princes our people expected, leaders like you were after Grandfather died.”

Thorin could only stare at his oldest for a long moment before his eyes closed on threatening tears, slumping back in his chair. He should have known that the boys were sensing at least some of the tension in the household, no matter how he and Dis tried to shield them. As wild as Kíli had often been, as stubborn as Fíli could become, they’d both thrown themselves into their training so hard that he’d closed his eyes to the truth, becoming ever harsher and more exacting instead of recognizing their desperation to live up to all he saw in them. And the few times when they’d broken the mold, reaching out to snap back a bit of their childhood for themselves, especially Fíli… he’d lashed out, rebuking and shaming.

Fíli was right, that was the source of at least some of the trouble between his dark-haired siblings. Now, Therin was technically the older in years, but acted more the dwarfling then the brunette, who’d looked at the world with all the sorrow of a lifetime lately. Kíli had no idea how to relate, or understand why he had been so harshly disciplined while Therin had been granted the freedom to be young. It would be next to impossible not to be jealous, and Thorin could only credit Kili’s maturity for it not having already soured any chance of a relationship with his new siblings.

Once again, Thorin’s eyes tracked to his other nephew, alone by the window, and felt dismay as he saw the shudders once more wracking that too thin frame. Even three weeks of rest had not been enough to put flesh back on lost to the fevers, even with Bombur making all of the younger prince’s favorites, leaving Kíli feeling the cold much more than any of the others. Before Thorin could move from his chair, Dis appeared from the one of the adjoining rooms, a blanket to hand that was quickly and mutely deposited around her most troublesome offspring’s shoulders. As he watched, breath held, Kíli not only allowed the attention, but actually leaned into his mother, brunette head resting on her shoulder.

“Finally.” Fíli breathed to himself before returning his attention to those sitting close by. “He’s been reluctant to let Mother near again, more nightmares of her leaving, I think.”

“Perhaps it would be best that I not ask him to begin attending council, then.”

Thorin’s soft musing met with a firm shake of the head from the oldest prince.

“The only time I can get him to act normally is when he’s deep in a problem about the mountain, being told he should rest instead of take up his duties is the last thing Kíli needs right now.”

“He’s been laying out the tunnels for the new mines?”

The king could not keep the surprise from his voice, chiding himself for being so distracted by his own research on Moria in Erebor’s library, and making plans for a spring campaign to the Iron Hills, to keep track of the younger prince. Truthfully, once Kíli had begun to recover, Thorin had felt rather useless, and unable to keep a tight enough rein upon his temper, to be around the other much.

“Aye, and it’s saved the miners a lot of grief. Since that last fever, he doesn’t seem to need to even think about it, just glances at the plans and can point out where they’ll find weak rock or better quality gems. Now that Kili’s back on his feet, I plan to hand responsibility for mining operations completely over to him and concentrate on diplomacy with the other realms.”

“Which tends to tempt me to hit someone with my cane. Hard.” 

Kíli managed a faint smile as he brandished the offending item, sinking down on the vacant side of the sofa next to his older brother with only the slightest waver. The healers had all said that the prince may never again walk well without such aid, at least not for any great length of time, as his back was too vulnerable to further damage should he fall. That had been yet another bitter drought for the prince, knowing he’d never again have the strength and agility to handle a sword, and though he’d stated he was reconciled to it so long as he could still practice his archery, Thorin wasn’t so sure. It would be highly unlike Kíli not to play lip service to such a thing until he could find the privacy to try sparring for himself, and his uncle feared that it would not end well. 

The brunette leaned over and bumped the blonde with his body, provoking a gentle shove back that might have deteriorated into a full wrestling match between the two six months earlier. Now, it brought a comforting smile and a reassuring arm about the younger’s shoulders as Kili’s own faint smile told them he’d taken no offense at being the subject of their discussion.

“I think that must be why Gandalf likes carrying a staff- it’s easier to smack offending idiots while making it look like an accident!”

“I would take offense at such nefarious reasoning being ascribed to my humble self were it from any but you, Prince Kíli!” 

The tall figure entered the room before Dis and Vili, staff held proudly brandished before him, and Thorin had to keep himself from once more doing a double take, expecting to see rough grey, not gleaming white. The mischievous twinkle to the eye and twitching lips, however, were very much the same as the wizard bent forward almost conspiratorially. 

“I will confess to being very tempted to do just that once or twice with your uncle, however!”

Kíli looked astounded for a long moment, eyes locking apprehensively on his uncle, but Thorin found himself letting his head fall back and roaring with laughter, which soon had the entire room joining in. Truthfully, he could recall any number of instances in which the wizard might have been justified in knocking him over the head! The king stood, still chuckling as he shook his head at the annoying, though powerful, pest who’d taken it upon himself to butt into dwarvish affairs at an inn in Bree so long ago.

“I would invite you to try it, old friend. We will see if Orcrist and I cannot use it for practice before going after that fool in the Iron Hills!”

The wizard cocked his head as if considering the offer before clasping Thorin’s hand in welcome.

“I think you will have plenty to hew soon enough, Lord Durin; there is no need to threaten an old Istari who went out of his way to safely deliver an old friend to your halls. Though I would warn you to keep an eye to your valuables- I understand he is a burglar of some renown!”

“Bilbo’s here? Where? I didn’t see you come in!”

Kíli was on his feet and moving with greater speed and ease than he had in weeks, face lit up and a broad smile upon his features, his two brothers right on his heels. Gandalf's staff, however, stopped all three princes from exiting the room by the simple expedient of barring the door.

“That is because we were here before you took up your post, Master Kíli. I wished to give Bilbo time to rest before subjecting him to the attentions of certain dwarves.” Gandalf’s face fell a bit, eyes saddening. “You must remember that he is a very old hobbit, now, worn by sorrow and a burden he was never meant to bear. He does not have much time left upon Middle Earth.”

Thorin sighed, leaning his shoulder against the stone of the fireplace as he recalled all the pain carried by young Frodo, who’d only had the Ring for seventeen years as opposed to the sixty Bilbo had carried it.

“Is there no peace and joy left for either of them, Gandalf? What about what Elrond and Arwen spoke of, asking that the Ringbearers may seek healing in the West with the elves?”

“Bilbo wouldn’t do that, not now!” 

Therin burst out, jaw clenching as he defied his uncle or the wizard to say otherwise. Gandalf smiled, a hand coming to rest upon the young prince’s shoulder to still a further outburst. When Therin instantly leaned into the hand, Thorin realized that the wizard must be a familiar, trusted figure to the dwarf who’d been partially raised by a hobbit. Certainly, the young one’s reactions occasionally surprised and baffled his uncle until he remembered Bilbo reacting in a similar way upon their long journey together, such as being fascinated by the friendship and collaboration between elven and dwarven smiths in Khazad-dûm.

“No, Therin, Bilbo has already said no. He wishes to spend his last years here, if you will have him.”

“Of course we will!”

“You need to ask?”

“Who would dare tell our burglar no?”

The three princes overrode one another with their answers, which set Gandalf to laughing once more even as Dis rolled her eyes at her children. Thorin, however, had another concern, pinning the wizard with a stern gaze.

“Have you told him of our return?”

“I have,” The weight of the Istari’s years and own return to the living seemed to hover over him in that instant. “I am not certain that he believes me, however. I think it best that you speak with him first, Thorin.”

“I do, as well.”

The grim set to the king’s countenance shut off any argument that the princes might have given, Fíli and Kíli paling a bit as they undoubtedly recalled the last time prior to the battle that Thorin had spoken with the burglar. The older dwarf could only hope that Bilbo was inclined to be as forgiving now that Thorin was not on his deathbed; the words he’d spoken to his hobbit friend the only actions from that long ago time that continued to haunt him now. It was time that the quest came full circle, and he faced the last of the demons created by the gold sickness, for all their sakes.

There was no answer to his light knock upon the door to the room where Bilbo rested, but Gandalf had warned him that the old hobbit often dozed off, so he silently let himself in. The being on the bed lightly snored, a woven coverlet of soft wool thrown over him to prevent a chill, with Lis sitting attentively near. She rose the moment that her uncle came into the room, one hand smoothing the blanket where it had folded under Bilbo’s hand, the look upon her face leaving no doubt that she loved this surrogate uncle dearly. The girl had her mother’s temper, but it was harder to rouse then in Dis, and she had a grace about her that was uncommon among dwarven ladies. There was a new shawl of soft rose about the girl’s shoulders, with a matching flower woven into one of her braids.

“He’s just ‘resting his eyes’ again. A hand to the shoulder should wake him. I’ll have tea waiting.”

“Thank you, Lis. A gift from your hobbit uncle?”

A blush crept up her cheeks as the shy smile that had always allowed Dis to get whatever she desired from their grandfather played about her lips. Only the lass’ golden hair, a shade paler than Fíli’s, showed her parentage, the legacy of Vili’s family, who had more than a trace of Firebeard in their line.

“Aye. Bilbo had it made and sent all the way from the Shire. Uncle Thorin, I hope that you know I-“

“I know, Lis. I could not have chosen a better guardian for you had I the opportunity. I need to speak with Bilbo alone, please.”

Thorin told her, a tweak of her nose as he used to do to her mother sending the lass on her way. That one he could handle, for she was every inch her mother’s daughter. Turning back to his current concern, the king seated himself upon the side of the bed, one hand gently shaking the old hobbit’s shoulder even as his eyes searched for some sign of the Bilbo he’d known in this white haired figure. Tired eyes came slowly open to meet the king’s, then widened, a familiar grin pulling at his mouth as the hobbit sat up with the energy of one much younger.

“Oh my!” 

A shaking hand brushed the king’s beard, then poked at the broad chest in disbelief before grabbing his cane from the bedside and raising it as if to hit the dwarf before warily lowering it. 

“You’re real, aren’t you?”

Thorin smiled faintly, capturing the hobbit’s hand and giving it a friendly squeeze.

“I am. It’s good to see you, old friend, though I would prefer a different greeting than being threatened with a cane. Again.”

“You as well, you stubborn mule-headed dwarf.” Bilbo grinned, daring the other to take offense at the words, which the king had to admit he’d had coming from his friend for quite some time. Then the hobbit looked around, and his face fell a little. “Oh, well…”

“What?”

Thorin asked warily, concerned at the abruptly changing emotions.

“I had so wanted to see Erebor again, restored to its glory, walk the corridors with my little Lis-a-Belle and stubborn Therin, but I suppose…” 

The head came up and Bilbo swung his legs determinedly over the edge of the bed, leaving Thorin to scramble out of the way as the hobbit stood with the aid of a walking stick. 

“I am quite ready, King Under the Mountain, let us go see what the Halls of Mandos look like, shall we? Another adventure that is just what I need! Maybe find those annoyingly sweet, bumbling nephews of yours while we’re at it?” 

The hobbit’s nose wrinkled as he pounded the floor several times with the cane.

“Though if they think to send me scouting again…twice like a barn owl and once like a brown owl indeed!”

Bilbo looked up at the slightly taller dwarf, who was floundering, mind racing as to how to handle a hobbit who believed himself dead, and…winked. Thorin felt a low growl in his throat as he crossed his arms, glaring at the other in mock outrage while the hobbit simply chortled to himself at having flustered his friend.

“I’m old, Thorin, not senile! And if you even think to try apologizing again, I really will hit you.” The hobbit cocked an eye at him. “I will, however, accept a hug in greeting from a friend before you show me around this beautiful kingdom I hear you set those two rascals to ruling.”

“Gladly.”

_Historian’s Note: The Esteemed Burglar Bilbo Baggins passed the last year and a half of his life in the kingdom of Erebor, which prospered under the rule of the princes. That spring, Frodo Baggins, Merriadoc Brandybuck, Peregrin Took, and Samwise Gamgee also visited the kingdom, with the Esteemed Ringbearer Frodo electing to stay for some time afterwards. Gimli Elf-friend and Legolas Greenleaf set out with their respective companies, and have prospered in the South, bringing new life and beauty to the war-torn lands of Rohan and Gondor, and Lord Durin VII Returned rode in triumph at the head of an army into the Iron Hills, setting Lord Nalin, son of Dwalin, of the House of Durin, in place as the new prince. Already, the legend of Durin spreads throughout the lands and Men, as they will, speculate that he is the son of the late Thorin Stronghelm or some other relative, for surely one eighty years in the grave could not truly rise again, no matter what those closest to him call him. Soon, he will return to the gates of our ancestral home, where it is believed that the Lord of the Death Warriors has taken refuge with other foul creatures, hoping to reclaim the secrets lost there…but that is another tale.  
Ori II, son of Nori, Scribe of Erebor_

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Legend of Durin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1067590) by [Nicky_Gabriel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nicky_Gabriel/pseuds/Nicky_Gabriel)




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